


Suledin

by neko_fish



Series: Aravel [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blood Magic, Blood and Violence, Gen, M/M, Pre-Canon, Slavery, Slow Burn, Tevinter Imperium
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-02-27 06:05:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13242024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neko_fish/pseuds/neko_fish
Summary: When Dorian opens the door a crack to poke his head in, he finds that the lighting has changed and the crowd seems decidedly drunk on something entirely different. In the air, there's the strong, distinct smell of iron and sulphur.Ah, he must've accidentally wandered into theotherparty, his brain immediately informs him.After all, it wouldn't be a proper Tevinter party if there weren't misconducts being performed in the shadows of the next room over.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [My quiz](http://selfish-cat.tumblr.com/tagged/my-quiz) for those curious.

It takes six glasses of generously topped wine to achieve the effect he's been looking for—a way to pass the party without caring about all the judgment afforded to him. They really are too sparing with their gazes. If looks were currency, Dorian could easily buy the archon’s estate out from under him and he's not even close to being drunk enough to try anything worth gossiping about.

“What exactly are they waiting for me to do? Conjure fireworks from my arse?” he mutters into his seventh glass. It suddenly appeared in his hand; some subtle slave must have slipped it there. Or perhaps he took it off a tray or window ledge without noticing. Well, it hardly makes a difference to him.

“Could be. I heard people making bets,” a friendly voice comes from next to him.

Dorian turns his head to find Felix standing there with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “If they want that kind of entertainment, they really should look over to Magister Nerius. I think he may be trying to set things on fire in the garden with his eyes.”

Felix shakes his head. “No, his wife gently but firmly guided him to their carriage a little while ago.”

“Good woman. She’s too good for him. Even with him gone, however, I am still far from the most inebriated one here, unfortunately,” he sighs, looking down at his empty glass.

Scoffing, Felix takes his empty glass and places it down on a tray offered at them. “We'll see about that once you start walking.”

“The very thought,” he huffs. As if to prove his point, he reaches out for another glass and empties it with one gulp and pushes himself away from the wall, his balance only a little stilted. “Young Alexius, you may have the honour of watching me make my way to the little boys’ room.”

Felix laughs. “How very kind of you, Lord Pavus. Best you hurry or you will have to find your own way home, though I suspect that wouldn't be very difficult for you.”

Without looking back in favour of keeping his eyes on the floor and walls to keep the room from spinning, he waves his friend off. “In this crowd? Please. I still have _some_ standards. I'll be back before you can miss me too much.”

Leaving the great hall, he meanders the empty corridors until he finds the bathroom to relieve himself. Dorian freshens himself up and, satisfied with the man looking back at him in the mirror, still looking far too sober, he takes his leave.

The party had been his idea, a last minute excuse to get out of attending a soiree with Livia at the insistence of their parents. While the alcohol and witticism of the crowd would've been of significantly higher quality, the trade-off wasn't worth it. At least here, he managed to wrangle Felix in for company.

He suspects Livia is spending her evening at the better party making obligatory snide remarks about him (it never hurts to start early) and will later debrief him on the main takeaways of the soiree as a way of thanking him for his absence. That seems to be their arrangement as of late. If they weren’t betrothed, they might actually have been friends.

Dorian twists and turns down the hallway and finds the door to the great hall once more. Only, there's no slave here, ready to hold open the door for him. Seeing as the sun hasn’t risen yet, surely he couldn't have been gone that long.

When he opens the door a crack to poke his head in, he finds that the lighting has changed and the crowd seems decidedly drunk on something entirely different. In the air, there's the strong, distinct smell of iron and sulphur.

Ah, he must've accidentally wandered into the _other_ party, his brain immediately informs him.

After all, it wouldn't be a proper Tevinter party if there weren't misconducts being performed in the shadows of the next room over.

Suddenly, there's a change in the atmosphere and something draws the crowd's attention. He really should turn around and leave but with his feet laden with alcohol and scholarly curiosity piqued, he stays rooted to the spot.

At the front of the crowd, a man separates from the crowd, identifying himself as the host of this particular party. Magister Dolorus, his memory supplies, the father of the host of the stagnant bore of a gathering he is currently attending. The entire family is prominent for their less than subtle dabbling in blood magic, their stringently methodical academic work, and their strange love for a particular kind of Orlesian cheese.

The man beckons for something and a robed slave appears from a side entrance with a bound figure. A mage slave. No one stirs. Nothing new there. Probably an apprentice he wanted to keep on hand. The murmurs from the crowd only start when the second slave comes into the light, the long, unkempt mess of black hair and bold black strokes of his tattoo highlighting wild, golden eyes.

For a moment, the elf’s eyes scan the crowd, alert and assessing. Eventually, they land on the door. Their eyes seem to meet and Dorian can't help but hold his breath until that gaze moves on.

“Friends, I have brought you here today because I have found a way to enhance the augmentation spells we have been researching!” the man announces. “It is not simply a matter of the spell, but the type of blood provided as well. Behold!”

The shackles fall from the slave’s arms and the crowd draws back as the elf looks down at his freed wrists and back up with narrowed eyes. The collar around his neck is immediately yanked back by the other slave handling him, bringing him down to his knees.

“Not to worry, it's perfectly safe. I have performed this hundreds of times. This will be his final and most glorious run,” the host reassures his guests. “Hold him still. Let’s proceed with a test trial first. As practiced.”

Then without any further introduction, the magister leans down and takes the elf’s arms, one at a time, and slices down the length from the wrist. Blood immediately wells up and Dorian loses interest. None of this can hold a candle to the type of magic he's been studying with Alexius. Before he can fully turn away, there's a collective gasp and he turns his head.

Inside the room, the magister is fighting against the slave’s blood and convulsing in the air. By the time he lands, his body unnaturally contorted, it's clear to Dorian that the man is dead. The audience gathers around their fallen host and behind them, one of the windows shatter. Where once stood two slaves was now one on the ground, dazed and holding a broken chain, and a trail of blood leading to the broken window.

Feeling more sober and decidedly less bored with this turn of events, Dorian turns on his heels and stops a passing slave to be directed back to the other hall. Almost immediately after he enters, he's greeted with, “There you are! I thought you'd gone and passed out somewhere again.”

Pasting a practiced smile on his face, he links arms with Felix and steers him to the doors. “No, no, I simply took a slight detour and indulged in a show. Now that that's done, I suggest we leave before that's no longer an option,” he says conversationally.

Felix arches a brow, allowing himself to be led away. “Dorian, what happened?”

“Oh, just the usual. Blood magic going wrong in the side room, a sudden and mysterious death, and now, an escaped slave. It was all very dramatic. I didn't think they could pull it off but I supposed there’s a first for everything. Come, let’s keep going before someone decides to turn this into a big deal,” Dorian mutters as they step outside.

Just as they reach their carriage, the whole house seems to come alive with panic.

“Thank goodness we got out of that scandal,” he sighs. “Given what a dreadful bore that entire affair was, I can't imagine an investigation being any more entertaining. I would much rather be in bed.”

Other than the exasperated shake of the head, Felix doesn't comment, knowing full well that once they were a safe distance from the party, Dorian will launch into details, trying to solve the mystery for himself. He’s never been able to help himself.

It only takes a block before he's leaning with his arm against the window, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “I only caught a brief glimpse of it, but it looked like the blood turned on the caster. I wasn't aware that that was something that could happen, not that I've observed many of these events, mind you.”

“Perhaps that elf was a mage?” Felix suggests.

“You could be right, but even then—” His words die in his mouth when he catches sight of a faint glimmer in an alleyway outside. Without thinking, he shouts, “Stop the carriage!”

The horses skid to a halt and whinny impatiently. Without waiting for the coachman, he swings the door open and hops out with Felix following closely behind. “What's the matter, Dorian? Are you going to be sick?”

He spares a glance back if only to roll his eyes at his friend. “You always ask me this after every party and the answer is always no.”

“There was that time when we were attending that Satinalia ball with Maevaris and you said no then vomited out the window, remember?” Felix points out.

Dorian frowns indignantly. “No, I don't.”

Chuckling, Felix says, “I suppose you wouldn't. You _did_ pass out right after.”

“That's enough of your cheek,” Dorian simpers with a dismissive wave. He backtracks down the path cautiously and turns the corner to the alley where he thought he'd seen that figure.

Eyes scanning the darkness, he notices a shadow slouched over against a pile of crates. The smell of blood and trash permeate the length of the corridor. It isn't until he's walking towards the figure that he realizes that he could be approaching any manner of vagrant and reaches for his staff.

“Dorian?”

He shushes his friend and motions for him to stay behind him. The last thing he wants is to put his mentor's beloved son in any danger. The boy doesn't even have magic to defend himself with.

At the sound of Felix’s voice and their approach, the figure lifts their head, unmistakable golden eyes flashing under some distant street light. “It's you,” Dorian gasps quietly.

The elf struggles to scramble back, baring his teeth—though whether in aggression or pain, he doesn't know. There's a glimmer on the ground and Dorian can see that he's clutching weakly onto a piece of glass, prepared to put up one final fight even as blood continues to sluggishly ooze from his forearms.

From behind him, he hears Felix exhale sharply before pushing him aside. “You're hurt!”

Startled by the sudden approach, the elf pushes back and falls, hand slipping in a puddle of his own blood. He hisses at the impact on his arms and turns to them, tense.

Felix immediately holds his hands up in surrender. “I'm sorry, I won't hurt you,” he says, switching to Common Tongue. “Let me help. I can't stop the bleeding completely, but I can slow it until we get you a healer.”

Some of the wildness in the slave's eyes dull in understanding at the words, but he makes no move to acknowledge them, still clutching at the shard of glass in his trembling hand. “Felix, be careful. He's armed,” Dorian mutters in Tevene. “It may be safer to simply knock him out.”

“No, he's scared enough,” his friend replies sternly.

He arches a brow and looks back at the elf, wondering if they're seeing the same thing. Even though he's slowly bleeding out and shaking like a leaf, the young man looks more ready to slit both of their throats than cower in fear.

“I won't touch you but I'll need to come a little closer to help,” Felix says slowly, scooting forward. “Please don't be too alarmed.” He raises his hands and utters a soft incantation, one of the few spells he managed to pick up as a child, while Dorian stands to the side, ready to jump in with a mind blast.

The blood slows to a trickle the slave spares a brief glance down to confirm that the spell had been to heal him rather than to harm. Despite his eyes starting to droop and go unfocused with weakness, something seems to spur the elf into action, perhaps the thought that he may live past the night, and he tries to push himself up onto his feet.

Dorian can't help but be a little impressed when the man manages the feat, bracing himself against the wall for support. The elf’s breathing is laboured from the effort and his knees are visibly trembling, but he keeps himself up and conscious seemingly by sheer willpower alone.

Felix frowns, concerned. “Wait, you shouldn't be getting up yet.”

“Yes, standing up is very good and all, but your late master’s family will be searching for you, and you're in no condition to run anywhere,” Dorian reasons. “You should sit back down and let my friend help you.”

He’s answered with silence, but those golden eyes turn to him and the two of them lock eyes. He holds the elf’s gaze nonchalantly until the other's willpower eventually gives way to the blood loss. Knees buckling as he tries to take a step away, the elf collapses.

Felix rushes forward to check over the slave for other wounds. “Come help me lift him, Dorian. We need to get him to a healer.”

Blinking, he sighs even as he does as he's told. “But blood is so hard to wash out of silk.”

Together, they lift the unconscious man and carry him over to the waiting carriage. Once they're back out onto the well-lit streets, Dorian can see how pale the elf had become, his lips dark and clammy.

“My place is closer, we can bring him there,” Felix suggests as he closes the carriage door. “You can use our guest suite tonight. Father won't mind.”

Dorian shrugs. He certainly wasn't about to offer up _his_ estate, not when _his_ father’s in town. “So what are you planning on doing with an escaped slave, Young Alexius?”

Felix glances over at the unconscious elf lying on the seat across from them. “First, I have to make sure he lives through this. Then we can decide on what happens next.”

He shakes his head when his friend looks over at him. “No, don't ask it. I can't take him.”

“You have more freedom to move about than I do,” Felix points out, his prodding less than subtle. “You could help him get out of the city at least.”

“I’m afraid not,” Dorian replies easily. “As you know, my father is in town and the first thing he did was cut off my allowance for ‘flaunting my depravities’ and ‘bringing shame to my lineage’ and all that. Being under surveillance and somehow bringing a slave back would make for terrible conversation.

“'Dorian, where did you get that slave?’ 'Oh, just off the streets as one does.’ 'With what money did you get it?’ 'Perhaps it was a gift?’ 'Whom from?’ 'A mystery admirer because I have so many of those.’ 'It’s filthy and savage. You are not keeping it.’ ‘But, Father, it’s so charming in its own feral way,’” he re-enacts. “And on and on and on until I am told to give it back or be rid of it. It'll be like my hamster all over again.”

Looking equal part exasperated and horrified, perhaps at the hamster comparison, Felix shakes his head. “He's a person, Dorian,” he says a little sadly.

Before he can respond, the carriage comes to a halt in front of the Alexius estate. A servant comes out to greet them only to gasp at the sight of the blood drenched elf on the seat. Felix quietly helps move the slave into the servants’ quarters of the house while another servant goes to rouse the healer.

Unable to be of further assistance, Dorian crosses his arms and watches from the back of the room until Felix finally approaches him. “You should go to bed and get some sleep. I’ll have a bath drawn for you. Father will be expecting you first thing in the morning.”

“And the guest of honour?” he asks, nodding at the bed where the healer has peeled back a layer of blood soaked rags, revealing pale, scarred flesh and jutting ribs.

“He can stay here. I'll think of something to tell my parents if they find out.”

Dorian huffs. “Please, they adore you. All you have to do is bat your eyelashes and twiddle your thumbs and voila! Magic. Are you sure about keeping him though? He could very well be dangerous. This could be nothing but trouble.”

Felix smiles tightly and turns back to assist the healer. “You should know by now, Dorian; I like trouble.”

“You are too good for Thedas.” Shaking his head with fond exasperation, he pushes himself off the wall and goes to find his room for the night.

\--

It turns out that perhaps he had more alcohol in his system than he originally thought and Dorian wakes up to a parched mouth full of fuzz and his brain trying to break out of his skull. It takes all of his willpower and the insistent chirping of the birds outside to roll him out of bed.

He stumbles off to the bathroom and manages to freshen up with minimal gagging. At times like this, he wonders why his skillsets don't include spirit healing.

When he opens the door and steps out into the hallway, he finds the healer standing there with a knowing smile. Being a regular visitor to the house meant all the staff knew of him and his habits. “Master Felix thought you might be a little sore from last night,” she explains.

Dorian lets out a pre-emptive sigh of relief. “You are both saints,” he says, lowering his head for the elven woman to work her magic. A cool rush of healing flows through him and his head stops pounding. Finally able to think clearly again, he remembers the events that led him here and arches a brow. “I'm surprised you still have mana after last night. How _is_ the lad?”

“He's resting now in the servants’ quarters. Master Felix told me what happened. It's remarkable that he survived through the night,” she says. “However, I fear how he will react when he wakes up.”

“I hope there's a guard posted at the door?” he asks.

The healer nods. “There is. We will not leave him unsupervised until we can assess him.” She glances at the clock and bows her head. “You should be on your way if you want breakfast before your session. Please excuse me for taking up your time.”

Mind having moved onto the spell he was supposed to prepare for his mentor, he nods absentmindedly and excuses himself to find Felix in the dining room. “Good morning. I take it you had need of our good healer’s services? You have ten minutes before you're late, Lord Pavus.”

“You're lucky you're cute,” he mutters, quickly grabbing a plateful of food and wolfing it down. A servant girl comes by and fills his cup with coffee and he nearly kisses her as he takes it and runs out the room.

The elf doesn't cross his mind again until two days later.

\--

“Dorian, would you mind checking on the elf? I just need to drop something off for my mother first and then I'll be right there,” Felix asks him as they return from a trip to the market.

He blinks slowly before nodding in realization. “Oh, yes, the unconscious one. He's still here? Are you sure he survived? It's been days and he did lose a lot of blood.”

Felix frowns. “He's been regaining colour in his face. Sanna thinks he'll wake up any time now.”

“I'll defer to your healer’s judgment then,” he says with a shrug. Without any expectations, he saunters to the servants’ quarters and is about to open the door when he hears a crash on the other side.

He hears the healer yelling something to pacify the situation and swings open the door with his staff in hand. Inside the room, the now conscious elf has backed himself up into a corner with a poor servant boy in his arms as a hostage. Amber eyes flit about the room, eyeing his surroundings warily, looking for a way out. There's a bread knife in one hand that he's holding up to the boy's throat and a whittling knife in the other.

Really now, Dorian thinks, why _are_ there so many knives in this room?

“I need you to calm down and let the boy go,” the healer says with all the authority she has.

The elf glances at her and furrows his brows.

Dorian sighs and decides to step in with a helpful “He doesn't understand Tevene. Try speaking in Common Tongue.”

If he still doesn't listen, Felix will just have to wait for him to wake up again, he doesn't add when golden eyes land on him, recognition flickering faintly in them.

“Please calm down,” Sanna tries again, language switching and voice placating this time. “You’re safe now. No one will hurt you here. I am Sanna, a healer. Let the boy go. He's just a servant. He doesn't know how to fight.”

After some thought, the elf relaxes his grip on the boy and shoves him away. The servant scampers away to safety while the elf drawing his knives up defensively. All in all, very impressive for someone who's been in a coma for the past few days and is no doubt weak from hunger and recent major blood loss.

“What's going on?”

 Dorian turns around and smiles wryly. “Oh good, you're here. It seems your delightful new friend is finally awake.”


	2. Chapter 2

When he comes to, the first thing he notices is the presence beside him. The room is too warm and the bed too soft for him to be in his usual cell. Remaining still, Mahanon opens an eye a slit and glances around.

The first thing he sees is the boy, placing a tray next to the bed for an elven woman. They're talking conversationally in Tevene—nothing but gibberish as far as he's concerned. There's something reflective and sharp on the tray.

Knives.

Good, he can use those.

He takes another moment to rest and to recollect how he got here. There was the party, the crowd, the blood. He remembers shattering the window and running until the strength in his legs failed him, and in that alleyway, cutting off the collar with the shard of glass he’d picked up. Then two figures talking at him as the world spun and faded.

With a silent prayer to Falon'Din, Mahanon’s eyes snap open and he rolls to his side and grabs the knives and the boy. Ignoring the throbbing soreness in his arms, he holds one of the knives to the boy’s throat and backs himself up into the furthest corner of the little room.

It feels good to be armed again, less of a victim, less of a slave.

The boy whimpers and lets out a pleading string of words he doesn't comprehend and the woman is shouting at him with fear in her eyes. He ignores the both of them and looks around, trying to find the closest escape out of this unknown place.

There's a window near the top of the ceiling so they're not completely underground at least, but it's barred and too narrow to climb out of. He briefly looks over at the door to the quarters where a robed man is standing and rules that out. In this condition, he doubts he'll be able to disarm a mage without taking heavy damage.

The woman speaks again, more authoritatively this time. Mahanon furrows his brows at the syllables. Some of them sound familiar, but not enough to spark any viable translations in his head. From the door, the man responds and his ears twitch at the sound of his voice. Looking over, Mahanon studies the man and vaguely matches the voice to one of the two men that loomed over him as he lost consciousness.

“Please calm down,” the woman tries again in Common Tongue. “You’re safe now. No one will hurt you here. I am Sanna, a healer. Let the boy go. He's just a servant. He doesn't know how to fight.”

Mahanon mulls over the idea and glances down at the shaking boy. Eventually, he decides that the servant holds no value in his escape and pushes him away in favour for dropping into a defensive pose. If he's still in Tevinter, they'll be more than happy to kill the boy if it meant being rid of him as well. After all, what's a little collateral damage in the face of convenience?

The boy scampers behind the healer with large tears streaming down his face. He would almost feel bad if he wasn't too busy eyeing the other two in the room, waiting for either one to make the first move.

Suddenly, a new voice enters and the mage at the door smiles drily and replies. A young man enters the room, surprise written all over his face. “You're awake!”

Mahanon arches a brow at how pleased he sounds and inches back until his heel touches the wall. This was the other person who'd been there in that alley that night, the one who slowed the bleeding.

The man holds his hands up, much like he did the other night. “No one's going to hurt you. Can you please put those knives down so Sanna can check on your wounds?”

He narrows his eyes and hesitates. With blood loss no longer an immediate threat, he sees little benefit in trusting them. These men may have helped him before, but there’s no guarantee that they'll do it again. He'd much rather escape than risk being brought back to his last place of captivity.

Or worse.

“We won't make you go anywhere,” the young man promises, as though reading his mind. Mahanon wouldn't put it past these mages to have developed such a technique. “No one knows you're here except us. No one knows if you're still alive.”

“Incidentally, your previous master is not. Alive, that is,” the first man chips in with the same level of detachment as one would have talking about a passing cloud. “So for the moment, unless the new Magister Dolorus suddenly grows a brain and decides to investigate every single attendee there that night, you are, to use the word loosely, safe.”

When he still doesn't drop the knives, the young man adds, “I will equip you with actual daggers if you let Sanna look over your wounds.”

“Master Felix!” “Fasta vass, Felix, have you lost your mind?” the other two immediately protest.

'Felix’ shakes his head. “I don't mind him being armed, just not around Sanna.” Then he looks up and addresses him directly, “My name is Felix Alexius. This is my home. And this is Dorian Pavus. He saw what they did to you, and he’s the one who found you.”

“And what you did to Dolorus,” Dorian mutters quietly.

“You won't be made to go back, so please put the knives away,” Felix asks again, pleading.

He's not sure if it's the unexpected sincerity in man’s voice or his own weariness that causes him to lower his arms in defeat. Looking down, he can see the ugly scars that mar the length of his arms and knows there are more down his body from countless experiments and trials over however much time he's lost in that forsaken place. Tossing the knives onto the bed in front of the healer, he leans back against wall and waits, his stomach tight with apprehension.

Sanna, with her eyes steeled, ignores the knives and approaches him, lifting his arms up for inspection. A dull green glow lights her hands as she checks him over with a gentle firmness. “The scars will remain and your arms will be sore for days yet. I wasn't able to knit everything back together so you'll need time to let the tissue heal naturally,” she concludes.

“For now, you need food and water, a simple broth would be best until you are stronger.” She turns to the servant he had previously held a knife to and instructs him in Tevene making him nod and excuse himself meekly. Then she turns back to him and explains, “He is getting you food. You should apologize later for giving him such a scare. He knows enough Common Tongue to understand that much.”

He waits for the ‘or else’ but it doesn't come.

Instead, the healer lets him go and collects the knives off the bed. When he doesn't react, she crosses her arms. “You need rest. I didn't save your life just to have you keel over from fatigue. You will be woken when the food is ready.”

Mahanon glances at Felix who smiles kindly at him. “We will speak again when you are feeling better.”

“Maybe try not to take anyone hostage next time you wake up; some of them might actually fight back,” Dorian adds helpfully before sauntering off.

Narrowing his eyes at the retreating figure, he settles himself back down on the bed. “Don't mind Lord Pavus, he's mostly harmless,” Sanna tells him, pushing him down gently. “The door will be locked and there will be a guard posted at the door but they are not to harm you, so sleep.”

He tries to resist it, tries to stay awake to plot his next move, but the sudden exertion after days of stillness drained him more than expected. As soon as his head hits the pitiful matted lump of a pillow, he falls asleep.

\--

The next time he stirs, the sun is in the middle of its slow descent. With a groan, he sits up and hears a quiet yelp and turns his head to see the servant boy skitter back a few paces. Then, just as cautiously, he retrieves a bowl from a nearby tray and slides it close while making sure to keep at least an arm's length away.

Mahanon swings his legs over the ledge and eyes the food. Picking up the warm bowl and giving it a sniff, he can find nothing immediately wrong with it. Warily, he spoons a little into his mouth. Though bland, the taste of broth in his mouth quickly reminds his body of how many days it's gone without nourishment. It takes all of his self-control to pace himself.

With a little substance warming his stomach, the drowsiness returns. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he looks over at the boy and says, “Ma serannas.” He clears his throat, voice hoarse with disuse. “Thank you. I'm sorry about earlier. Did I hurt you?”

The boy shakes his head, still reluctant to draw too close. “No. I am fine,” he says in shaky Common Tongue. “Miss Sanna said to bathe and sleep. Come.”

No longer fueled by adrenaline, all his limbs feel like lead and he finds his legs weak and shaky as he follows the boy out of the room into a long, narrow hallway. To one end, he can hear the bustle of the kitchen and to the other, the quiet of the main house. The servant boy walks over to the guard stationed by the door and exchanges a few quiet words in Tevene before the guard joins them down the hall.

Eventually, after a few twists and turns, they arrive at a room with a large bath in the center, designed to hold any number of people at once. The servants’ bath then.

“You should bathe with soap,” the boy says, pointing to vials next to the water before disappearing out the door.

Left alone, Mahanon quickly shrugs his clothes off and steps into the water, surprised to find it comfortably warm. It’s a large step up from having a bucket of water splashed at him. Wasting no time, he sets about the arduous task of scrubbing his hair clean. He opens each vial and gives them a sniff, trying to discern one from the other.

“That is for your hair,” a voice suddenly speaks up. He gives a start and bristles only to find the guard holding the door open and watching him nonchalantly as the servant boy returns with a towel and fresh clothes. “The larger one is for the skin.”

He sinks a little deeper in the water at their appearance. Washing himself off as quickly as he can, when he emerges to towel off, he finally feels like a person again. Ignoring their eyes, he pulls on the simple cotton tunic and pants and wrings his hair dry as best as he can and follows the boy back to the room where he can see fresh sheets lining the bed.

There, an older human woman is waiting for him with a comb in her hands. From behind, the guard nudges him forward with the pommel of his sword as if in warning to not try anything lest he face the consequences. He ignores the silent threat and steps forward, scanning the woman for signs of any concealed weapons or ulterior motives.

Nothing.

Instead, without a word, she has him sit on the bed and starts fussing over his hair, brushing all the knots out of it. Mahanon blinks in confusion when no pain comes. He'd had a hard time trying to tame the partially matted locks in the bath and resigned himself to the idea that he would have to cut it with the next blade he found. But then here’s this woman, working it with magic of some sort.

“It's enchanted,” she explains without looking up from her task. “Without this little thing, we'd have to cut off all that pretty hair.”

Mahanon doesn't reply, doesn't tell her that it wasn't grown out by choice in the span of the last however long. When she's satisfied with her work, she helps him braid the freed strands into something manageable, tucking the plait behind his ear and over his shoulder.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, unsure what to make of the situation.

The woman blinks at him as though taken aback. “So it speaks,” she eventually says. “And with manners too.”

He holds his tongue and waits.

She spares him a slight smile. “That's enough for the day. Have some water and rest now. Sanna and Master Felix will see to you in the morning.”

As the human leaves the room with the guard, he hears her lock the door behind her. It occurs to him then that there was probably a reason they were grooming him. Even if that young man means to keep his promise, 'won’t be made to go back’ doesn't mean 'won’t be made to go elsewhere’.

It was stupid for him to grow so complacent over a single good deed.

Finally left on his own, he fights the growing need to sleep and studies the little room. Beyond the bed and a small end table taking up one half of the room and a compact drawer for clothes in the opposite corner, there is no other furniture.

Getting up, he searches the drawers only to find them empty. Mahanon exhales in frustration and continues scavenging only to find nothing. He could strip the bed of its linen, but his arms have hardly regained enough strength to use the cloth effectively, especially not when facing someone the size of the guard outside his door.

He furrows his brows and sits down on the bed to think. The window's already been ruled out as an option and fighting would be suicide. “Fenedhis,” he mutters to himself, tapping his fingers against his cheek.

Eventually, his eyes drift down to the lines criss-crossing his arms. He sits up a little straighter and runs a hand down the raised scars. Then he notices the shadows running along his arm and looks up.

A candle holder.

Nearly sliding off the bed in his eagerness, he reaches out and grabs it, studying its material and design. Nodding to himself, Mahanon takes the candle off and places it back onto the end table. He snaps off the handle, using the edge of the drawer for leverage and holds it closer for further inspection. It's a soft metal, perhaps bronze or a mix close to it.

Not trusting his body to wake itself when needed, he gets up and brings the rest of the candle holder, the candle, and the bedsheets over to sit by the door to listen to the traffic of the house. He spends the rest of his time concentrating on reshaping the handle into something workable.

When the night finally comes, his eyelids are drooping and every part of his body is protesting. Suddenly, there's a soft muttered complaint from the guard and footsteps, each more distant than the last. Springing at the opportunity, Mahanon shifts to a crouch to test his newly fashioned lock pick.

The old lock clinks and clanks deafeningly loudly and for a moment, all he can concentrate on is the pounding in his ears. Holding his breath, he continues tinkering until there's an audible click. He breathes a sigh of relief and pulls the door open and glances out into the hall.

Empty.

Tucking the lock pick behind his ear in the braid, Mahanon slips out into the corridor. He makes his way away from the kitchen where he can still hear staff making preparations for the next day. Hugging the wall, he turns down another hallway and waits in a shadowy corner until he sees the guard return to his post, none the wiser.

Eyes gleaming in the darkness, he continues on his way towards the main hall. He pokes his head into the first room he passes in hopes of finding a window to sneak out of but then notices the glimmer of an intricate ward drawn over it. Scratching his head, he enters the room and finds a place to hide, wondering how best to proceed.

The front door will be most heavily guarded place and any doors leading outside from the main floor are bound to be reinforced one way or another. He could wait until morning comes and flee when some of the wards are taken down, but then he'd lose the cover of night. Perhaps there's a way out from the second floor, he thinks; a balcony or a chimney.

With his new plan, Mahanon leaves the safety of the room and continues down the hall to find a way upstairs. Turning a corner, his heart skips a beat when he sees a lit room standing in his way between him and the stairs. Unwilling to waste more time finding an alternate route, he sidles up to the doorframe and peers in to see a figure hunched over a desk piled high with books.

Dorian Pavus, his mind supplies.

The man seems completely immersed with whatever he's working on, his quill scribbling away furiously. Surely he won't notice anyone passing by the door. Mahanon exhales and moves past the room and is about to run up the stairs when he hears distant footsteps and a light suddenly appears from the direction he came from.

His eyes widen and he veers to the side to hide in the shadows next to the staircase. As the light approaches, he can see that it's the young man, Felix, carrying a tray of food. He turns into the lit room and Mahanon can hear the two bantering amicably.

Mahanon is still weighing the risks of making a run for the second floor when Felix emerges again, the tray and candle still in his hands. He slinks back, pressed against the wall, making himself as small as possible. The human makes his way towards the staircase without so much as a glance in his direction.

Releasing the breath he had been holding, he thinks he's in the clear when the candle suddenly turns towards him. “Ah, there you are.”

He freezes.

Felix’s voice is light and soft, giving none of his intentions away. Mahanon remains rooted to the spot, not daring to move should he be mistaken. But the man is looking directly at him now.

There's a soft sigh tinged with amusement. “You're certainly resourceful, I’ll give you that.” When he doesn't respond, Felix takes a step closer. “I fear there may have been a misunderstanding. Will you hear me out?”

Mahanon steps away from the shadows and waits for him to continue.

“No, not here,” Felix says, still keeping his voice low. “We might disturb Dorian. He's working on a formula for my father. We can go to the parlour? It's just down the hall this way.”

Reluctantly, Mahanon leaves the side of the stairwell. If anything were to happen here, he would be trapped in a corner when a house full of mages and guards inevitably come after him. At least in the privacy of a parlour, he might be able to buy himself a little more time to beat a hasty escape.

Following the human down the hall, he gives the room a quick scan for traps and mines before stepping inside where the fireplace flickers to life. So much for climbing up a chimney.

There are bookshelves all around the room with titles he can’t read and regal portraits lining the walls of cityscapes and old Tevinter faces. All the windows here face the garden and glimmer dangerously with complex wards and glyphs.

“You won't find any windows or doors you can escape from. My mother double checks her wards every night, I'm afraid.” Felix sheepishly sets down the tray on a table and tells him with good humour, “Here, I thought you might be hungry still. I was bringing Dorian a snack anyway so I dropped by your room but you weren't there, as we both know. It's just the same broth as earlier.”

He glances down at the bowl suspiciously before turning his gaze back to the man.

Felix raises his hands placatingly. “I meant what I said; I have no intention of harming you. No one in this house practices blood magic. I'm not planning on selling you or making you do anything against your will.”

“Then what do you want?” he finally asks.

“I want to help you.”

Brows furrowed in confusion, Mahanon asks, “Help? Why?”

“Because it's the right thing to do,” the young man says matter-of-factly.

Floored, Mahanon stands there with his hands lowered to his side. “You want to help me,” he repeats slowly. “A Dalish elf and escaped slave that you found on the streets. Because it's _right_?”

“I do.” Then Felix smiles. “That's the most words you've spoken yet.” He takes a seat on one of the couches and looks up. “I have a proposal for you if you are willing?”

Crossing his arms, he waits.

“Thank you. I can secure you safe passage to Val Royeaux or anywhere along the way on the Imperial Highway, but it won't be for a little over a month's time,” Felix tells him.

Unable to believe his ears, he huffs. “Or you can open the window for me.”

Felix chuckles before schooling his expression into something more neutral. “I could also do that but I have nothing to arm you with right now other than kitchen knives. And while the new Magister Dolorus doesn't know whether you're alive or not, I’ve heard earlier that he has put out a bounty on your head, double for your safe return. Minrathous is not a safe place for you.”

“It’s not safe for any elf.” Pursing his lips, Mahanon asks, “And what would I be doing for a month if I were to play along with your plan?”

“You will pose as my guard. It’ll take some convincing, but this way, I'll be able to arm you and bring you with me when I return to university after my holidays,” Felix explains.

“You assume I am capable of fighting.”

“Yes, well, you did take a hostage with a bread knife after being on the verge of death for three days. I don't think most of our guards could've pulled that off,” Felix says lightly. “Give it some thought. You can give me your answer tomorrow night.”

Mahanon arches a brow. “You'll open the window for me tomorrow?”

The man smiles and shrugs. “I'll accidentally leave one open before I go to bed. Now, before I bid you goodnight, did you want any of that broth or should I bring it back to the kitchen?”

“I'll have it,” he says quietly, not willing to pass up the offer of food when there’s no guarantee of food in the near future. Unsure how to react to the encouraging look on the other's face, he takes the still warm bowl in his hands and stares into it. A thought suddenly strikes him and he looks up and asks, “Do you know what year it is?”

Felix blinks and glances up in thought. “I believe in the Chantry calendar, it would be Dragon 9:34 at least for the next few weeks. We're well into Haring now.”

His mind reels at the news and he lowers his eyes and takes a sip of the broth. “Oh.”

\--

Returning to his room with Felix behind him, he ignores the glare of the guard and closes the door behind him. Mahanon pulls the sheets from the ground and wraps them around himself before tucking himself away in the corner of the room furthest from the door. There, he replays the events of the day and the choices he’s been given.

Having been away for so long, he wants nothing more than to get back to his clan as soon as possible, but then he remembers the tales of the survivors they found while camped near Hasmal. Stories of endless wandering, unquenchable thirst and hunger, scattered corpses all around, and slavers and bounty hunters lurking behind every boulder.

Unarmed and weakened, even if he manages to get out of the city, he knows he won’t survive the journey.

Eyes drifting close, Mahanon curls in on himself and sighs, “Creators guide me.”

\--

“It will only be for a month?” he asks in the morning, resolved. The healer had just finished looking over his arms again, the soreness is still palpable but nothing he can't handle.

On the way out the door, Felix turns back and blinks. “You've made up your mind then?”

In the light of day and with a freshened mind, he's surprised to see that the young man looks to be around his age. Mahanon nods slowly. “Until I'm given reason to decide otherwise.”

Felix smiles, bright and unguarded. “I'll personally open the front door for you if it ever comes to that.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Kaffas, Felix, you are unbelievable.”

Felix spares him a smile and indulges him, answering in Tevene, “I never know whether to take that as a compliment or not when it’s coming from you.”

He rolls his eyes. “If you’re striving for accuracy, you should take it as an incredulous ‘you are unbelievably stupid’. I was there that night, why didn’t you say anything?”

“You were busy and had a big trip the next morning. I didn’t want to disturb you,” his friend answers, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“I like to think I would’ve made at least a little time for you,” he sighs and massages his temples. “All this because you want to impress that girl you meet at university?”

A frown. “No, because it's the right thing to do, Dorian. If it seems I've only become more vocal against slavery in Tevinter after meeting Aulia it's because she's the first person I've met who shares my views. Just like how you want to make Tevinter better, I want to do my part to help.”

“Helping is fine. Helping is admirable,” he says. “But taking him as a guard? Talking to him alone? Personally delivering him to the south? What's next? Writing him into your will? Is there no limit to your bleeding heart?”

“You said you couldn't help,” Felix says with a shrug.

Dorian furrows his brows. “No, don't put this on me.”

Shaking his head, Felix says, “I'm not. I'm just saying this is my way of helping.”

“You could've left a window open if you wanted to set him free,” he points out. “I'm sure he would've been more than happy to run out on his own.”

“Malnourished and unarmed _and_ with money on his return? Would you really send him to his death like that?” his friend asks, eyebrow arched.

Dorian waves a hand dismissively. “Please. That sorry excuse for a magister wouldn't have been able to tell him apart from any other elf in the city even if he stood in front of him with a picket sign. The bounty probably just says 'Elf! Please return!’”

He glances up at the elf in question, standing idly by the door. It's been days and he still hasn't heard him utter a single word, but according to Felix, he can speak perfectly coherently. The elf continues looking out into a middle distance, either not noticing or ignoring his gaze.

Huffing indignantly at the thought, he asks, still in Tevene, “So you're planning on taking him shopping today? Because what could possibly go wrong with arming him, right?”

“I promised I would and Sanna says he’s recovered enough to go out. He wouldn't be much of a guard without a weapon,” Felix reasons. “Did you want to come with us?”

Dorian heaves a sigh. “I think it may be best that I do lest you lose all your coin to some skeevy merchant. I had plans, you know.”

“You mean you were going to spend your day in a tavern somewhere.”

He smirks. “I was _also_ going to try out that new massage parlour everyone's been talking about. I hear they offer a rather unique service—a trend going around in Orlais involving little cheese wheels for your eyes. Sounds delightful, doesn’t it?”

Furrowing his brows in appropriate bafflement, Felix shakes his head. “So sorry to disrupt your plans then, Lord Pavus. How much money do you think it'll cost to get him weapons and armour? Maybe I should bring more just in case.”

“Why? Were you planning on outfitting him in gold? Because I think silver would be more flattering,” he answers idly. “Just bring whatever you have now and I'll spot you if you're short.”

“I thought you were cut off?”

Affronted, Dorian frowns. “You do realize I don't work for free, yes? I do have some money of my own, young Alexius. That, and I've managed to convince my father that it wouldn't do to have me walk around penniless like a craven.”

Felix laughs and shakes his head. “Yes, Maker forbid that happen. Come on, my dear Lord Pavus, we should get going.”

“Of course, darling,” he answers, batting his eyelashes. “I know just the place. Get your elf and we'll be off at once.”

\--

They take the carriage to the marketplace but the ride is slowed by the throngs of people lining the streets. At Felix’s request, the cloaked elf is sitting silently across from them, looking out the window with an unreadable expression on his face.

“I'm sorry,” Felix suddenly starts, drawing both their attention to him. “I just realized I never asked for your name.”

The elf blinks slowly at them, sharp eyes studying them from beneath the oversized hood. “You can call me what you wish.”

Dorian isn't sure what kind of voice he was expecting, but this wasn't it. There’s no underlying quiver of fear, no outrage. Though a little hoarse, it's a warily calm voice with measured words, a carefully crafted mask of neutrality.

He doesn't let it deter him from getting a quip in though. “I would advise against giving Felix naming rights or you might end up with a name like _Magister Mittens_ or _Archon Claws_.”

“They were cats!” his friend protests, face heating up. “And those were excellent names for cats!”

Glancing from him back to Felix then back to his gloved hands in his lap, the elf mutters grudgingly, “Mahanon.”

Blinking in surprise, he leans forward and asks, “Pardon? I'm afraid didn't quite catch that.”

“You can call me Mahanon,” the elf repeats, voice a little louder, his reluctance clear.

The syllables are foreign to his tongue even as he repeats the name in his head.

Felix, on the other hand, looks delighted at the revelation. “Mahanon then. Let's see what we can do about getting you armed. Oh, but you should take this and keep it on you. It's a family crest to show that you work for us.”

Mahanon takes the ring gingerly and eyes it warily.

“It's not a slave band,” Felix reassures him. “You can take it off whenever you want. It's just in case you run into any trouble while you're still here.”

Slipping it on and off his finger as a test, the elf glances over at Dorian questioningly.

He shrugs. “Not to worry, I'm in on Felix’s ridiculous plan. You should count yourself very fortunate that you found the one person in all of Minrathous who would go so far as to personally deliver you back to the south.”

Felix elbows him in the ribs while the elf looks down as though trying to decide how to react to his words. “I will return this ring to you in a month’s time,” he eventually says.

The carriage finally comes to a halt and the three of them step outside. With his hood drawn, Mahanon falls into step behind them as they enter a little shop in an inconspicuous alley.

The merchant immediately give them a once over before sidling over with the clear intent to sell. “Gentlemen! What can I do for you this fine afternoon?”

Looking around, he asks, “Are you the only one working here today?”

“The master is in the back working and mustn't be disturbed,” the man tells him.

“I see. Well then, we're looking for armour and weapons for the elf here,” Dorian explains. “He’s newly employed.”

“Excellent, I have just the thing! How do you feel about gold?”

He stifles a sigh and prepares himself to spend the better part of an hour here. “No. Let's not.”

\--

While he's going about talking the man down because no, no one in the history of anything has ever needed diamond studded gauntlets for combat, he hears Felix say quietly, “This is normal. It might be faster if you go and find something you think will work.”

Mahanon spares their bartering a glance before silently perusing the wares. He looks at the displays with an appraising eye, skipping the ornate section altogether. Towards the back of the little shop, he picks up a dagger and balances it vertically on a finger before tossing it into the air. Catching it easily, he purses his lips and puts it back down, unimpressed.

The salesman notices and panics. “What do you think you're doing, you knife-ear!?”

Ignoring the man’s screeching, Mahanon picks up another dagger and repeats his test and nods to himself. “This will do.”

“Of course it will ‘do’,” the merchant huffs, switching to Common Tongue. “You're holding silverite there. It's worth more than you'll ever be.”

Something flashes in the elf’s eyes akin to amused skepticism and he turns to Felix and calmly says, “Perhaps you should find another shop. This is iron.”

The merchant's face goes red. “How dare—”

“Your elf has a good eye,” a voice suddenly says in Tevene. An older man emerges from the back and smiles. “I thought I heard your voice, young Master Pavus. No father today? Don't tell me you're back for another staff?”

Dorian returns the smile. “No, no, not today. It's still perfectly intact. I'm here for my friend’s newest guard. I was hoping you'd be around.”

The man sighs deeply. “I never leave.”

“Ser, I can handle the customers,” the merchant starts.

“By trying to pass off iron as silverite? You make a mockery of my crafts. Get out before I turn you into a training dummy,” the smith dismisses. Without waiting to watch the man flee, he turns his attention back to them. “Apologies. My wife insisted I hire ‘help’ so that I can spend more time in the back with my hammer.”

He shakes his head. “All good. I was curious to see if I could eventually leave with half the store for nothing more than a sovereign and a firm handshake.”

“You would've eventually gotten there, I'm sure,” the man says. Then turning to Mahanon, he switches to Common Tongue. “Have your eye on that set, huh? Sure you don't want something higher tier?”

The elf nods. “These will do. Light and balanced, they're well made.”

The smith dips his head at the compliment. “You have a fine eye. Why don't you take a look over there at the armour and see what you like.”

As the two wander away, Dorian sighs, “This is what I do in my free time now. I take children shopping.”

A chuckle. “You’re still a child yourself, Master Pavus. That's an interesting one there, the tattooed elf,” the smith says. “Haven't been looked in the eye by an elf in a while.”

“Southern elves will do that, I'm told,” he replies with a shrug. “Quite novel, isn't it?”

It doesn't take Mahanon long to find suitable armor. It's a light coat with more leather than metal and a simple chest plate for protection. “He knows his crafts, I'll give him that,” the smith mutters. “Maker, he probably knows more than that imbecile we hired.”

Dorian laughs. “That can't be hard. I mean, diamond studded gauntlets?”

Mahanon quickly slips into his new armour and straps the daggers to his back. Drawing the hood over his head, the elf looks far more relaxed than he has been since he first woke up days ago.

Equally pleased at the acquisition, Felix smiles and pays for the wares. The elf looks decidedly uncomfortable at that and mutters something quietly that has Felix shaking his head in reassurance.

As they're about to step outside, the smith calls after them, “Word of advice, Master Pavus and friend, I don't know which of you these thugs are after, but mind my storefront if you know what's good for you.”

“Kaffas,” he mutters, drawing his staff as he glances out the window. There are four, no, five men waiting for them outside. “This is why I recommend you to all my friends.”

The man scoffs. “If they all attract fights like this, you can just keep your mouth shut, thanks.”

Dorian spares him a grin before motioning at Mahanon to get ready for a fight. “I see two mages and three larger brutes. We should deal with the magic users first. Felix, you stay inside. There could be archers hiding somewhere.”

Mahanon glances over at him questioningly.

He frowns. “I don't dabble in blood magic if that’s what you're worried about. I know more than enough to fight without using anyone’s blood.”

Seemingly satisfied with that, Mahanon positions himself by the door and pulls out his newly purchased daggers and says, “I can take down the mage closest to the door. Can you freeze the other one?”

Dorian’s momentarily taken aback at the confidence in the elf’s voice but quickly decides to mull over it at a more opportune time.

Nodding, he casts a barrier over them. Taking that as his cue, the elf launches himself out the door with a speed Dorian hadn't been expecting, half disappearing into the shadows as he goes after the nearest mage. Following suit, Dorian steps outside with a winter’s breath ready, kicking the door shut behind him.

Quickly following up with a flashfire at the incoming warrior, he hears the distinct sound of ice shattering. Glancing over, he sees the ice disappear, leaving behind a mangled body in its wake. At the sound of a gurgle, he turns to see a bounty hunter, mere meters away from him, grabbing at his throat and choking on his own blood before falling to the ground.

Mahanon is nowhere in sight. For a moment, Dorian is about ready to open the door to tell Felix that his elf ran away, but then a burst of cuts suddenly appear on the another brute. An arrow whizzes down and he sees a familiar figure leap back, letting it impale the warrior in the arm.

Silently reprimanding himself to refocus on the fight, he casts a round of chain lightning, watching it pass from one hunter to the next and up to the roof of a nearby building. Dorian grits his teeth and sends wave of fire at the archer. There's a scream as they lose their balance and plummet to the streets.

There's a grunt of pain to his side and he sees the elf thrown against the wall as the warrior wildly swings his hammer in wide arcs. Instinctively, he throws up a barrier around Mahanon as the hammer comes down.

The barrier shatters but it's enough to startle the bounty hunter out of his attack. The elf snarls and pushes himself away from the wall. He all but climbs up the warrior's armour and slams his daggers down on either side of the man’s neck, right beneath his helmet.

A ways down the alleyway, the last bounty hunter recovers from the panic of being lit on fire and electrocuted and comes running back to rejoin the fray. Dorian can see Mahanon’s chest heaving and under the hood, loose strands of hair are sticking to his face from sweat. There's a tremor in his hands but he flicks the blood off his blades and falls into a defensive stance, eyes focused.

This is why there are so many stories about the savage elves of the south, he decides.

The warrior charges at Mahanon, who leaps back and takes a swing with one of his blades only to find a chainmail tunic underneath the cloak. Unable to penetrate the mail, the dagger flies from his grasp and the elf is easily knocked back—but not before knocking his helmet off with an upward kick. Dorian frowns and wiggles his fingers, willing his mana to recharge faster.

Not enough for winter’s grasp, but lightning will do.

He throws another lightning chain at the bounty hunter and watches as the man’s body convulses with electricity. The spell isn't as powerful as his last one and the man doesn't stay shocked for long. Shaking it off, the warrior turns his heel to face Dorian, his expression darkened with blood and murderous intent.

Brows furrowing, Dorian tightens his grip on his staff, ready to use it as a blunt weapon when suddenly, the warrior pauses in his stride and comes to a complete halt. He lets out a silent breath and keels over with an arrow embedded in the back of his unprotected head.

In the distance, Mahanon stands there with the bow and arrow retrieved from the fallen archer. But before he can sigh in relief, the elf raises the bow and draws again.

Arms shaking from the strain, Mahanon fires.

Dorian’s breath catches in his throat as the arrow lands less than a meter away from him. It doesn't fly true, but it's enough to reveal another rogue who had been creeping towards him with a pair of daggers drawn. Narrowing his eyes, he swings his staff across the hooded figure's head and knocks them against the wall.

Exhaling, he glances over at Mahanon who lowers the bow and nods at him. Straightening out his robes, he steps aside and pulls the door open with a casual “I suppose this means we won't be getting coffee and little cakes after?”

Felix jogs out and goes to tend to the elf while the smith frowns at the figure bleeding out by the doorway. “I said to watch the storefront.”

He shrugs. “They're wearing a hood. It'll hardly leave a stain.”

“Vishante kaffas, what kind of mage uses their staff as a club? It's no wonder you need a new one every other week,” the man complains loudly. “Look at that.”

Dorian follows the pointing finger to the cracked tip of his staff. “Ah, well, that was quite unintentional.”

A sigh. “Wait there, I'll lend you something until I have time to craft something else. If you break it, you're paying for it.”

“You have my gratitude,” he calls back before turning his attention to the now corpses around him. Rolling up his sleeves, he searches the rogue’s person until he finds a piece of paper. He unfolds it and arches a brow, reluctantly impressed at the detailed sketch of the elf along with a meticulous description of his stature. “Using his father’s notes as a bounty description, huh? Will amazements never cease? What's to happen next I wonder? Perhaps a pig will take flight?”

“I’m sure someone’s working on a spell,” Felix mutters, returning to his side to take the paper from him. “Are you alright?”

Dorian spreads his arms and looks down. “Yes, perfectly fine. And surprisingly clean too. Look, barely a speck of blood on me. I can't say the same for you though,” he directs at the elf.

Mahanon is leaning against the wall for support, an arm wrapped around a dented chest piece. Dorian can't help but wince at the sight of it and the thought of what kind of bruises it must be concealing underneath.

When a staff is handed to him, he asks the smith, “I don’t suppose I could bother you for a replacement chest plate for him as well?” He waves off Felix’s instant offer to pay. “This one's on me. You should go find the carriage before more people decide to come play 'catch the runaway elf’.”

Felix quickly jogs off while the elf staggers over, the bow and quiver of arrows loosely slung around his wrist. With effort, he bends down and searches the rogues with unsteady hands, pocketing their gold and inspecting their weapons.

The smith returns with the chest plate as Mahanon’s studying one of the daggers. “Obsidian. But yours are better made,” the elf mutters offhandedly, finding the other weapons unworthy of scavenging.

“I have half a mind to hire you,” the man returns drily. “Shame that you're a tattooed elf.”

“Yes. Shame about that,” Dorian deadpans. “Makes everything trickier, doesn't it?”

Mahanon glances over with dark eyes but doesn't respond.

The carriage pulls up and he considers lending the elf a hand upon seeing the glassy look in his eyes now that the battle high has worn off. But with the same doggedness Dorian had witnessed that first night in the alley, Mahanon manages to stagger his way over on his own.

Following behind with a parting farewell to the shopkeeper, he gets into the coach and breathes a sigh of relief as it takes off.

In the safety of the carriage, Mahanon runs a hand lightly over his wrists, the tremors in his arms visible now. Felix frowns and leans forward in concern. “Do you want to take off your gloves? That might be more comfortable.”

Freezing, Mahanon shakes his head and replies quietly, “I'm fine.”

For a moment, it looks like Felix wants to protest but he decides against it and leans back instead. “Alright, but Sanna will want to check you over once we return.”

The elf nods in silent agreement.

Watching the exchange from his peripheral, Dorian doesn't offer any comments and waits until the rocking of the carriage eventually lulls the exhausted elf to sleep.

Felix sighs, “I was afraid he'd try to keep himself awake again.”

“He's completely overexerted himself. I'm surprised he didn't pass out sooner,” he mutters in Tevene, keeping his voice low so as to not wake Mahanon. “To be honest, I fully expected him to run away.”

“We made a deal and he’s upholding his end. Is it really that surprising?” Felix asks. “Perhaps you need to have a little more faith in people.”

Rolling his eyes, he shakes his head. “Oh, Felix, ever the optimist. We’ll have to see about that. Come to think of it, wasn’t it peculiar how he wasn't afraid of magic—normal magic, I mean? I thought Southerners were funny about that kind of thing.”

“Maybe it's different for elves down there? They live out in the wilderness, don't they? Could he be a mage? There was the blood magic thing at the party too, right?” Felix asks.

He shakes his head. “No, I didn't feel even the slightest hint of magic coming from him. Maybe you're right,” he eventually says with a shrug. “It could be a cultural thing. He's surprisingly good in a fight though.”

Felix purses his lips. “And he’s barely had any time to recover too. What else do you think he's been through? Maker, he looks so young.”

“How can you tell with those tattoos?”

“Just look at him.”

Eyes shifting over, he arches a brow. “I see that he's getting blood everywhere. Again.”

Stifling a surprised laugh, Felix elbows him. “You’re terrible. And you are the last person who should be complaining about that.”

“Again with all these incidents I don't seem to remember?” he protests.

“That's because you're never fully conscious for them. _Someone_ has to remember these things. For prosperity,” Felix teases, a wide grin on his lips.

He huffs fondly at the younger man. “How selfless of you. Perhaps I should hire you to write a chapter of my autobiography. I think I’ll call it ‘The Blackout Years’. But in the meantime, we should think of a way to hide your elf's face. It'd be dreadfully tedious to have to fight my way out every time I need to leave your house.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spend an embarrassing amount of time choreographing fights in my head and have about 30 pages of references to help me write the DAI canon bit of this series


	4. Chapter 4

_The sound of metal clanking against metal._

_Muffled voices._

_He tries to open his eyes but the world is spinning._

_With effort, he tries again._

_The room is dark, lit only by the eerie glow of unnatural torches._

_More voices, louder now._

_Shapes hover over him and he can feel his nausea growing._

_He's only distantly aware of the pain blossoming down his arms._

\--

His eyes snap open.

Above him, Sanna takes a step back and waits for him to find his bearings. “You're back in your room at the estate,” she tells him.

Looking around, Mahanon sits up, his hair falling loose around him and body aching and stiff. A piece of metal lands by his hand and he looks down to find his lock pick. Taking it in his hand, he runs a finger over the grooves and takes a deep breath to calm himself. “What happened?” he asks. “How long was I asleep?”

Returning to his side, Sanna turns his hand to reveal ugly bruising and swelling down the scars on his forearm. “You got in a fight before you fully recovered is what happened. Took a lot of work getting you out of your armour. It's just being cleaned now. You slept through the night. How do you feel?”

Flexing his hands, he closes it into a loose fist shows her. “This is as tight as I can get it. There's a pain that goes down my arm and I can't feel the tips of my first three fingers.”

“When you were first brought in, there were too many old scars for me to heal your arms properly. You're noticing it now.” She hands him a vial. “Here, drink this healing draught, it'll help bring down the swelling and ease the pain.”

He takes a sniff of the potion and frowns.

“It's not poisoned if that's what you're worried about,” the healer tells him. “It might taste like it though.”

With that warning, Mahanon downs the liquid and tries not to gag at the taste.

Whatever face he makes, it makes the woman smile, amused. “Told you. I have another one for the soreness. You can take it after you go and bathe. I wasn't going to give it to you to teach you a lesson about overexerting yourself, but Master Felix insisted.”

His lips twitch before he can school it back into something more neutral. She reminds him of the clan healer, always ready to give him an earful, threatening to let him bleed out next time even as she tends to his wounds with the gentlest hands.

Other than Sanna, he and the other servants rarely interact save for the occasional quiet 'thank you’ and 'pardon me’. They don't seem intimidated by his sudden presence but make it clear that the wariness has not entirely faded with their side glances and hushed voices when he draws near.

For the first few days, the other guards tried to antagonize him, maybe wanting payback for his escape on that first night. But with nothing to take and receiving no reaction, they soon grew bored and settled for gossiping with the rest of the staff. On his part, he ignores it all, preferring to concentrate on his expected departure.

A hand taps his shoulder lightly, startling him from his thoughts. “Up you get then. The sooner you bathe, the sooner you can have that potion. Make sure you get all that blood out of your hair.”

Unsteadily, he gets up. Every muscle in his body protests but he manages to trudge out the door with minimal wincing.

In the bathroom, he's grateful to see it empty. Pulling off his clothes, he steps in the water and reviews his plan for the trip back—assuming he manages to locate his clan. Scrubbing at his hair, he tries to imagine his clan’s route. When he had been with them last, they were still by the outskirts of Starkhaven on their way east towards Ansburg.

Rather than wandering around the countryside on his own, the safest thing to do would be to drop by Kirkwall and see if Clan Sabrae is still there, he decides. They'll at least have an idea about where his clan may be.

Dunking his head into the water for a final rinse, he watches as any trace of dirt and blood disappears from the water with the help of enchantments carved into the stone. With a mixture of awe and wariness, he steps back out to find fresh clothes waiting for him.

Mahanon looks around and finds no one. The servants in this household have long since perfected their technique for traveling around the property undetected. The thought of being watched is an unsettling one and his eyes sweep the room again to make sure he's alone.

He keeps his gaze trained on the floor as he dries off, not ready to confront the sight of his marred body. There are ugly bruises on his chest from that strike to his chest plate; even without looking, he can feel the ache as he breathes. Still, better bruises than a hammer to the chest.

Wringing out his hair, he returns to his room to find the same older woman from last time waiting with that comb of hers again. Mahanon pads over and sits down on the fresh sheets and lets her smooth out the new tangles in his unruly hair.

“Can you tie it tighter this time,” he asks.

The woman looks taken aback by his request but then answers not unkindly, “Sure. I wasn't expecting you to get in a fight so soon.”

His hair is being plaited when Sanna returns with another vial, this time smelling more of elfroot. He downs it without complaint. “Not as foul, huh?” she says, retrieving the container. “When you're done here, go get some breakfast and find Master Felix in the study. He'll be happy to see you up and about.”

Mahanon nods and waits for the human to finish up with his hair and leave the room before getting up, limbs feeling lighter already. From the end table, he takes the lock pick out from beneath the candle holder and tucks it back into the braid before leaving the healing ward that's turned into his makeshift room.

In the kitchen, he serves himself a quick and simple breakfast, just a piece of bread and a bowl of stew. The cooks look like they want to say something to him but whether out of unfamiliarity or the language barrier, they refrain and let him go on his way.

As he walks down the hall, he passes Magister Alexius and lowers his head, knowing better than to draw attention to himself. He’s only interacted with the man once, and even then, all he did was stand to the side as Felix pleaded his case to his parents. It didn't take much for either of them to relent under the puppy dog eyes of their beloved only child.

The man doesn't spare him a glance as he leaves through the front door with two servants following closely behind with bundles of scrolls in their arms. While Alexius has an air of authority about him, it pales in comparison to the lady of the house, who scrutinized his every move with ice cold eyes for the first few days.

If she ever catches wind of the bounty on his head, he suspects there'll be no escape from her wrath. Luckily, more often than not, she's busy working with her research assistants in her lab or out testing her theories.

Turning into the study, he finds Felix there, scribbling away on some parchment and waits by the door.

All of a sudden, Dorian comes running in and scoops up an armful of scrolls, looking uncharacteristically disheveled with his hair sticking out and buckles on his outfit still undone.

Felix looks up and bursts into laughter. "Late night, Lord Pavus?”

“Quiet, you.” He spares a moment to peer over Felix’s shoulder and points down. “Hmm. Error there.”

Leaning forward in his desk, the younger man looks over his work. “What? Where? No, there isn't, you ass!” He turns around with a scowl. “Get out of here before you're late, Dorian. Father's already left.”

As quickly as he appeared, the mage leaves, his laughter lingering in the air. Noticing him, Felix smiles and beckons him over. “I'm just about finished writing this letter though now I feel like I should look over all my equations again. Both Sanna and Dorian insisted that we stay inside today. It looks set to rain anyhow.”

Silently, Mahanon stands by the desk as Felix resumes writing. He occasionally glances over but the script is foreign and wholly illegible to him.

After a few moments, Felix signs the letter off and sits back. “There. All done.” He glances over. “Say, Mahanon? How would you feel about learning a little Tevene? There are a couple of parties I'm expected to attend next week for First Day and pre-First Day celebrations. It might come in handy. Or at the very least, it'll help you pass the time. I can't imagine it being much fun watching me work on my maths.”

His first instinct is to wave off the idea in disgust. Genuine intentions or no, the last thing he wants is to learn anything about this Creator forsaken country. But with money on his head, it could help him scope out potential threats while he's obligated to remain here. In the back of his mind, he can hear his keeper chiding him that turning down this knowledge would be no noble thing.

Reluctantly, he dips his head. “Alright. Where do I start?”

\--

They spend the better part of the morning on simple Tevene words and phrases. Most of them escape him by the time they stop for lunch but Felix shrugs it off and tells him, “We'll keep practicing.”

Outside, rain is pounding against the windows, blurring his view to the garden. With nothing to look at from his place by the door, Mahanon turns his attention to the idle chatter between Felix and his mother and two of her apprentices, listening for any of the new words he'd just been taught.

Above the clatter of silverware on plates, he can't make out anything they're saying still. All the syllables seem to blend together and they seem to be mumbling compared to the clear, concise tone Felix used to teach. Sighing, he turns his attention back to the rain and waits for the meal to end.

\--

“Here. I thought you might want to take a look,” Felix says when they return to the study. He takes out a folded piece of paper that's been carefully tucked away between the pages of a heavy tome.

Unfolding it, Mahanon blinks as a sketch of his face stares back at him. He can't read any of the words but it's not hard to understand what he's looking at. Another obstacle to his freedom. “That’s a lot of gold.”

“And it’s double for your safe return,” Felix replies.

He furrows his brows and frowns. “Will this be a problem?”

Felix shakes his head. “Not if we're careful.”

“In case you didn't notice, you waving that piece of paper around is already the opposite of careful,” a new voice joins them.

They whirl around to see Dorian standing by the door. His arms are crossed and he looks to be in a visibly worse mood than when he briefly stopped by earlier.

“Dorian! Is Father back as well?” Felix asks, glancing at the door worriedly.

“No, Alexius got roped into having lunch with a couple of senior enchanters. I, fortunately, managed to escape,” the man says. Coming to a stop in front of him, Dorian takes the piece of paper from his hand and sets it on fire with nothing more than his fingertips.

Mahanon stiffens as the last shred of paper bursts into smoke and ash. He turns his gaze to the mage, who returns it impassively.

“Was that really necessary?” Felix asks, frowning.

Dorian claps the ashes off his hands and arches a brow pointedly. “I'd say so, yes. Never mind bounty hunters, if your _mother_ gets a hold of this, none of us will get out of this alive.”

Sensing something off with his friend, Felix asks, “Did something happen, Dorian?”

The two men fall into a sharp, hushed conversation in Tevene, with him, no doubt, being the topic of discussion. Dorian sounds tense and exasperated while Felix concerned. Pushing down his agitation, he waits for them to finish.

“Vishante kaffas, Felix!” Dorian says, tilting his head back to scowl at the ceiling.

No translation needed for that phrase, Mahanon thinks drily to himself.

Felix replies with something that sounds like both a concession and the end to the argument and they both stop.

“It's lucky for your elf that the late Magister Dolorus’ death was taken more as a joke than a threat otherwise more people might actually take his driveling seriously,” Dorian eventually says.

He furrows his brows and at last, Felix shares with him, “It seems like Dolorus is convinced you're alive.”

Dorian frowns and adds, “Not only alive, but also the secret to pushing blood magic to the next level. He's hired every bounty hunter in Minrathous who'll spare him the time of day and killing the ones who try to bring him pass offs.”

“How do you know all this?” Mahanon asks warily.

A scoff. “The man wouldn't shut up about it—not the part about blood magic specifically, but his subtlety left little to the imagination.”

“It may be best that we avoid venturing out until we absolutely have to,” Felix sighs.

“Since young Alexius here insists on seeing this through, you'll have to wear this whenever you leave the house,” Dorian says, producing a package from his bag.

He unwraps it to find a silver mask.

Dorian explains, “It's Orlesian. A souvenir from a friend and your temporary cover. I know it's unsightly and smells like someone tried to give a druffalo a rose bath, but you'll have to bear with it.”

Mahanon stares long and hard at the mask, wrinkling his nose at the strong scent of the musky perfume emanating from it. He has half a mind to laugh at the idea of walking around looking like a street entertainer but he's having a hard time finding any of this funny. Finally, he nods. “I understand.”

The stunned look on the man's face almost made having to wear that atrocity worth it.

\--

He spends the next few days indoors slowly going stir crazy. He passes the time by studying Tevene under Felix or listening to him talk. And when Felix is busy getting ready for his return to university, he helps Sanna with her research by grinding roots and plucking leaves.

A good way to regain some strength and dexterity in his hands, she had said.

On eventful days, he follows Felix out to his friends’ estates. To his surprise, no one spares him a second glance. Whatever excuse Felix gives for his mask, these Tevinters accept with a haughty laugh. He has to stifle yawns as the humans write long strings of numbers and letters on scratchy black boards that sometimes grates on his ears and sends shivers down his neck.

For hours on end, he stands by the doorway and watches the slaves run about the house through the mask that still makes his eyes water and nose itch. They pace back and forth down the halls, always busy with one task or another.

A few times, he sees children running after their mothers or caretakers with laundry baskets or an even younger child in their arms. The braver ones look up at him with bright, curious eyes only to have their heads lowered by their accompanying adult who spare him a frightened glance and quickly excuse themselves. He wonders how many times that needs to happen before the child stops looking altogether.

Though time consuming, none of these activities are enough to wear him out and he spends his nights tucked away in the corner of his room redoing the fletching on the arrows acquired from the bounty hunter. Cursing his clumsy fingers as they try to carry out what he used to be able to do with his eyes closed, he struggles with the task until he drifts off into uneasy sleep.

\--

It's a relief when the first of the parties begin. Having aired the mask out with the help of Sanna, the smell is almost bearable when he goes to put it on. Mahanon blinks away the stinging sensation in his eyes and draws up his hood and follows Felix out to the carriage to find Dorian waiting.

He hasn't seen the mage since he'd dropped off the mask. Endless parties and festivities with intense bouts of research, debates, and hangovers dispersed in between, Felix had told him offhandedly while they were taking a break from one of their lessons.

It's a wonder that the man still looks as immaculate as ever, not a strand of hair out of place. Mahanon supposes it's not a difficult look to achieve when every household seems to have a couple dozen slaves and servants scurrying about. The thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth and he follows the two to the carriage without a word.

Instead of riding with them inside, he sits in front with the coachman as he's done so the last few outings. The human is a middle aged, stoic man and they've never exchanged a word but Mahanon prefers his company to most of the other servants’.

They pull up to a large mansion atop a cliff overlooking the sea. The carriage pulls up to the door and the two get out. Felix looks hesitant. “Did you want to come inside?”

“Dolorus has been inviting himself to every party in the city and making a menace of himself so it may be best to wait outside is what Felix is trying to say,” Dorian translates.

Mahanon keeps his tone neutral and nods. “I'll remain here then.”

“I'll try not to be long,” Felix says ruefully before going inside.

They pull up with and join the sea of carriages a ways away from the property so as to be out of sight. There, he watches slaves and servants mingle in hushed whispers. The coachman takes out a pipe and a tin of dried leaves and sits back.

After a moment of silence, Mahanon gets up and climbs to the roof of the carriage. A safe distance away is the edge of a cliff, and spanning out past the horizon below that is the sea. He takes a deep breath and lets his shoulders sag. If every party had a view like this, he wouldn't mind waiting outside.

The sight of the sun setting and the gentle waves of the Nocen Sea so deeply contrasts the rough, dark waters of the Waking Sea it makes him homesick.

As the skies darken, he notices a wave of uneasiness fall over the area. Curious, he leans over the front and asks the driver, “Did something happen?”

The man looks up at him as though considering whether to speak or not and then finally shrugs. “Hear poachers have been taking elves from parties,” he says, his voice deeper than Mahanon expected and gruff from years of smoking. “Been checking their eyes.”

His stomach sinks. He knows the driver notices his sudden nervousness but thankfully decides to ignore it and go back to puffing on his pipe.

He looks around and sees the faces of frightened footmen and coachmen, some making gestures of prayer, others trying to disappear from sight but unable to abandon their station. With all the able bodied fighters are inside to help the nobles with their posturing, the ones made to wait outside are left vulnerable.

Reaching down, he grabs the bow and quiver of arrows from the front seat and waits.

When night falls, the trouble starts.

Mahanon’s ears twitch at the sound of rustling and a muffled yelp. At the sound of heavy rustling nearby, he gets up and hops across carriage tops until he finds what he's looking for.

A bounty hunter.

The man is turned with his back to him, busy cornering an elven slave, tilting their head up to inspect their eyes under the faint moonlight. The bounty hunter is only lightly protected in a leather brigandine, not expecting any fight from his victim. Drawing his daggers, Mahanon leaps down and neatly slices the man’s throat.

With a gurgle, the bounty hunter slumps over the frozen slave, smearing him with blood. Mahanon looks on impassively as he leans down and wipes the blood off his blades on the dead man before rummaging through his pockets to find them empty.

Wide, frightened eyes stare at him and he holds a finger to his lips as he climbs back up the carriage.

He finds the next hunter further into the crowd and readies his bow. Feeling the weakness in his fingers as he knocks an arrow and draws, he has to grit his teeth to keep his hands steady. Taking a deep breath, he releases.

The arrow catches the hunter under the arm and embeds itself into their ribs as they raise their arm to cut the slave down. Flexing his fingers a few times, he shakes off the lingering numbness in the tips and takes off again.

One by one, he hunts down the poachers under the cover of darkness. The last one he finds after circling the area, is pulling elves from the edge of the crowd, unable to slip in between carriages and horses with his armour. Tapping a finger against his cheek in thought, Mahanon studies the man, looking for gaps in his armour but finding nothing that could stop him in a single attack.

Coming up with a different plan, he leaves the safety of the crowd and positions himself carefully. Then, picking up a pebble, he throws it at the warrior to get his attention.

The man turns.

Mahanon takes off his mask, letting the moonlight catch his eyes.

There's a quick string of Tevene and the bounty hunter comes bounding after him with surprising speed. Leaping back, he takes off in a jog, letting the man get in close before picking up the pace. He can feel the ground shake with every lumbering step and pushes himself to run a little harder.

Suddenly, he drops and rolls to the side, out of harm’s way. With a noise of surprise, the warrior looks up but it's too late. He digs his heels in the ground but his momentum carries him forward over the cliff’s edge.

It only takes a second before the sea drowns out the scream.

Letting out a sigh, Mahanon dusts himself off and puts the mask back on and returns. All eyes are on him but no one says anything. He finds his way back to Felix’s carriage where the coachman is still calmly smoking his pipe. Neither of them say anything as he sets his bow and arrows down and climbs back up onto the roof.

Slowly, the shock wears away and the chatter returns, the relief in the air almost palpable. Sighing in relief to himself, he lies down and listens to the hushed voices as unfamiliar constellations twinkle in the sky.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here's a pic of Non during Suledin](http://selfish-cat.tumblr.com/post/170260128824/mahanon-in-suledin)

When he comes to, the sun is shining directly in his eyes out of scorn, his head is pounding, and he hates everything. He recognizes the room as the guest room in the Alexius estate but has no idea how he wound up here. Headache growing with every thought passing his mind, he groans and buries his head back under the pillow.

It takes him another nap before he's able to roll out of bed to face the day.

There's a knock on the door as he's working through the belts and buckles and _sweet Maker_ , why does fashion take so much work?

“Come in,” he sighs, giving up on his robes.

Sanna walks in with a glass of water ready.

“I love this household more than anything in the Imperium,” Dorian mutters gratefully, taking the water and tilting his head down for some much needed healing. As the headache fades, he sighs, “Thank you. One day I'll find a way to repay you.”

The healer gives him a crooked smile. “Think nothing of it, Lord Pavus. Make sure you drink all of that and try to take it easy tonight.”

He grins. “I’d be lying if I told you I’d keep both of those promises.”

Shaking her head but smiling, the woman leaves the room. Finally able to think clearly again, Dorian downs the glass of water as instructed and straightens his robes (finally able to tackle those buckles) and checks his hair again before going to find some breakfast.

When he arrives at the dining room, he finds a plate of his favourite foods and a cup of coffee left out for him—breakfast having ended a while ago, apparently. With a shrug, he takes the plate and goes off to find Felix.

To his surprise, he finds his friend in the healer’s lab with his temporary guard. Mahanon has two fingers hooked around a stick Sanna is holding while Felix has him repeat Tevene words. Dorian sets his cup down and furrows his brows in confusion. “Either I'm still drunk or in need of a drink. What in the world are you doing?”

They all look over at him and Felix smiles. “Isn't it obvious?”

He takes a bite into a piece of toast and shakes his head. “Not in the slightest and I'm not prepared to exert any amount of effort trying to figure this out.”

“Shame. I guess you'll never know then,” Felix tells him with a shrug.

“Such cheek!” he laughs. “Where _do_ you learn it from?”

“Oh, just my father’s assistant. You might've seen him around.”

Dorian grins. “You mean the very handsome one, yes? I do quite like him.”

To the side, Mahanon switches hand and winces. “You're pulling too hard again. You'll only hurt yourself more if you keep that up,” the healer scolds.

Remembering how the elf’s hands shook during the fight in front of the shop, he nods slowly. “Ah, rehabilitation exercises then. And you are trying to teach him Tevene? Any luck?”

“Plenty. I think he's a better student than that Orlesian assistant my mother took on,” Felix says.

He rolls his eyes. “Orlesians. Always lowering standards. Did you have any plans today?”

Felix nods. “I'm having lunch with my parents at an aunt's house.”

Finishing his piece of toast, he hums in thought. “I suppose that means I can’t drag you into town with me today. I had a new robe made for First Day and I need to go in for a fitting. You know how it is.”

“It must be difficult being as dedicated to fashion as you are,” Felix deadpans.

Dorian huffs and reaches down for his cup of coffee. “You don’t know the half of it. Since I must be without your delightful company, I don’t suppose I could borrow a carriage?”

His friend shrugs. “By all means. Oh, why don’t you take Mahanon with you?” Both he and the elf turn to look at him. “I feel bad for making him stand around, waiting for me all the time. Maths sessions and family lunches can’t be very fun to listen to.”

He hesitates. It's not that he's unused to having servants follow him around and waiting on him, but this isn't even remotely the same situation. Rather than a servant, walking around alone with the elf would feel more like having a wolf at his heels. “Are you sure that's a good idea?”

“Yes, and we haven’t had any trouble outside since he started wearing that mask. Please, Dorian?”

\--

The ride to the main square isn't terrible. Mahanon is sitting up front with the coachman and traffic is sparse and they arrive far earlier than anticipated. He goes in for the fitting and is prepared to leave when the tailor tells him, “The robes will be ready in an hour’s time if you’re willing to wait, Master Pavus.”

Normally, he would send someone to pick it up, but being so close to the square and with nothing better to do that day, he shrugs. “Very well, I shall return in an hour then.”

He tells the coachman to find somewhere to wait and proceeds to walk around, trying to come up with a shopping list of sorts. The entire time, Mahanon follows behind, silent and unreadable as always. Was he impressed at all by the ancient statues standing proudly in every corner of the square or did he look on them with hate?

Dorian’s idle thoughts are cut off when he hears a cry. He turns to see two thugs beating on a slave. The man is curled up on the ground and crying for mercy but after a curious glance, the crowd returns to their errands.

Sighing and following suit, he continues on his way to the next stall when he hears a loud whinny.

From behind, the horse he'd just passed kicks up and takes off in a gallop, its reins snapping. It races straight for the slave and rears onto its hind legs at the sight of people in its path. The thugs roll out of the way and the slave doesn't waste any time in taking advantage of the distraction to crawl away to safety.

All the while, Dorian can't help but catch a glimpse of silver in the corner of his eyes and turns to see Mahanon watching the scene unfold with an impassive gaze. Frowning, he grabs the elf by the sleeve and pulls him away.

No one takes notice of their hasty departure—all the people in the square too busy murmuring among themselves, surprised but obviously pleased to have a story to tell at whatever gathering they’ll be attending later.

They leave the square and walk for another two blocks before turning down an alleyway. He pushes Mahanon into an alcove, so that anyone passing by would think them a pair of young lovers indulging in a moment of privacy, and hisses, “What do you think you're doing?”

Amber eyes return his gaze steadily. “They were going to kill him.”

“So you decided to play the masked vigilante? Has it occurred to you that _you_ would be killed if you got caught? Don't tell me you plan on stopping every injustice you pass by?”

“If it's within my power to help,” Mahanon answers, not a trace of doubt or remorse in his voice.

“Festis bei umo canavarum,” he mutters in exasperation. “No, that's exactly what you're _not_ to do. I wouldn't be surprised if that's how you wound up a slave in the first place.”

His entire body stiffening, Mahanon narrows his eyes and takes a measured breath before saying slowly, “You would have me turn a blind eye to a man being beaten to death.”

Despite knowing he shouldn’t press the issue, Dorian scowls. “I would have you stay out of trouble until you're returned to the barbaric south. It's called keeping your head down and _surviving_. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

“It's called cowardice,” the elf retorts.

“Strong words for someone living at another's mercy,” he snaps.

Mahanon looks up at him, cold, sharp eyes scanning his face for _something._ Despite being a good half a head taller than the elf, he gets the distinct feeling that he’s shrinking under that gaze with every passing moment. “No, that's what _you're_ doing. _You've_ given up. _You're_ prepared to _'survive’_ no matter what that entails.

“Tell me, _Lord Pavus_. How many parts of yourself will you bend and break to 'survive’? How many parts of yourself can you afford to throw away until you're no longer you?”

His jaw snaps shut and he remains silent.

“I will live and die as me,” Mahanon hisses, slapping his arm away. “And I will help those I can because people like you are too busy ' _surviving_ ’.”

Speechless, he watches the elf stalk off.

The rest of their trip is silent.

\--

He hates that he can't get the elf's words out of his mind.

They're there, echoing off the walls, when he listens to magisters whispering about how they beat their opponents in the proving grounds with the help of a little 'boost of power’, but oh, now they'll need to go and get a new kitchen slave.

They're there, ringing in his ears, when the man in front of him tells him about the bounty hunter war happening even as they speak. “They've been finding dead elves and hunters outside after parties have cleared. That Dolorus is offering so much gold that they're taking elves where they can and attacking each other when they cross paths. Bastards better have left mine alone otherwise our generous host better be prepared to give me a ride back.”

He empties his glass of wine and raises a hand to silence the man. “That’s all good and well, but I'm sure I can think of much better things to...discuss.”

They're there, shining through the window, when he wakes up before dawn in a stranger's bed with a foul taste in his mouth. Putting his robes back on, he sneaks down the stairs and makes his way back to an empty house.

They're there, lying between every line, when he reads the letter from his father telling him to return to Qarinus to follow through with the engagement now that Livia’s returned home.

\--

When the First Day party comes around, he winds up at the Alexius household to find Felix. As usual, he greets his mentor and his wife on their way out, offering compliments on her fine taste in jewelry.

Livia laughs at his theatrics and has a servant bring him a cup of coffee. “To help you last until midnight,” she says, “though I doubt you'll need it. Felix is just getting dressed. He should be down shortly. Now excuse us, my dear, I need to get my fill of Tevinter wine before my trip to Val Royeaux. Happy First Day, Dorian, we’ll see you next year.”

Her words fill him with warmth and Dorian doesn't understand how a household can be so welcoming when his has been growing harder and harder to return to every year.

Taking the cup of coffee offered to him, he makes his way up the stairs and pokes his head in Felix’s room to find his friend standing in front of the mirror. “I still think it's crooked, don't you?”

Mahanon is off to the side with his brows furrowed in confusion while his friend continues fussing over his robes. “Felix, the new year will have come and gone if you spend any more time standing there.”

His friend turns at the sound of his voice and smiles. “Dorian! There you are. Come help me with this, would you? You're much better at this kind of thing than me.”

He huffs. “Naturally.”

Neither he nor Mahanon acknowledge each other's presence as he straightens out one of the belts on the robe. If Felix notices anything off, he doesn't comment on it.

“There. All better,” he says with a nod. “Now let's go. I hear there's going to be a wine fountain and want to get there before someone inevitably decides to season it with poison.”

\--

The first thing they see as the carriage pulls up is a familiar figure walking up the stairs to the front door. Both of them sigh and roll their eyes. “Maker, it’s like he’s everywhere. Dorian, can't you use your wily charms to get him to drop the bounty?”

He scoffs. “Felix, I know I'm amazing but even I can't pull off miracles like that otherwise I'd be time travelling by now.”

“I suppose that's true. Father says I may be able to help with the theoretical work once I'm back from university next year.”

Dorian arches a brow. “You're assuming I won't have cracked it by then?”

“I would never suggest such a thing,” Felix says mock-seriously before breaking into laughter. “I simply meant that if you happen to still be working on it, I would love to help where I can, Lord Pavus.”

He smiles as the carriage comes to a halt by the stairway. “Of course, but only because you always bring me late night snacks.”

They step out and Felix passes Mahanon a word of warning about Dolorus before stepping inside. Only half the attendees have arrived and Dorian thinks he should perhaps keep an eye on the magister but quickly becomes distracted by the sight of the wine fountain.

\--

To his surprise, the fountain lasts quite a few hours into the night before a woman suddenly cries out and collapses to the ground—one of the few guests who didn't bring test kits or slaves for taste testing. Rather than concern, the crowd makes a collective noise of mild disappointment and the fountain is taken away only to be replaced by slaves carrying glasses out on trays.

Dorian sighs and finishes his glass before picking up another one from a passing servant. With Felix engaged in conversation elsewhere and no one interesting nearby to talk to, he slips outside to the balcony for a breath of fresh air.

The night is calm with the moon out and shining brightly in the sky. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he notices movement and turns his head. Squinting a little, he realizes that he can see all the carriages parked a little ways away. With the party being in the heart of the city, he supposes there simply isn't as much room to hide all the vehicles completely out of sight.

Again, there's movement. He catches a faint glimmer of metal under the moonlight and realizes that it's a mask.

A tacky Orlesian mask.

Still stinging from their argument, he's about to go back inside and leave the elf to his own devices when he remembers the talk of bounty hunters targeting elves at parties. He shakes his head. Surely that feral creature can fend off a few bumbling hunters.

But then he remembers those shaking hands and long, angry scars running from the wrists down.

At the very least, it'd be easy to hide in such a large crowd.

But that would leave others vulnerable to attack, and he knows well enough by now that that moronic, noble idiot would never do such a thing.

Dorian hesitates and scowls. “Surviving is overrated anyway. Just let him die as himself as he so pleases,” he mutters mockingly to himself.

Even as the words leave his mouth, he knows his feet won't take him inside. Slamming the empty glass down on the railing, he lets out a long string of profanity and goes down the balcony stairs to the garden because Maker be damned if he's going to let this stupid elf ruin his First Day.

\--

Leaving the gardens, it's only a short walk to the carriages, but as he walks, ready to give that elf a piece of his mind, he senses something amiss.

Magic.

Now alert, he quickens his pace to the edge of the crowd. He sees slaves and servants hiding and cowering by their carriages—so afraid they barely notice him.

Never a good sign.

Chewing on his lower lip, Dorian follows the magic until he comes across the body of a slave, drained of blood. “Kaffas.”

Tiptoeing the best he can with a little too much wine in his system, he glares at his feet, feeling simultaneously like he's had too much and not enough to drink to deal with this situation. After a moment, he decides that he’s definitely leaning towards the latter.

Turning to the closest servant, he tells them, “Be a dear and go inside and fetch me a bottle of wine? Just tell them it's for Pavus. I'll need it by the time I'm done here.”

Only a lifetime of training and conditioning gets the woman to snap out if her fright enough to nod and skitter off.

With that done, Dorian continues winding his way around carriages towards the source of the magic. He comes across the body of a bounty hunter with an arrow embedded in their back and another blood drained servant before reaching his destination.

The horses have backed up nervously and created a small clearing where the servants have fled the area, preferring to risk punishment to death. Sneaking forward a little more, Dorian begins to see the fight happening ahead of him.

There are whips of blood snapping at the ground while Mahanon dodges one after the other. Unable to get close, the elf puts away his daggers and pulls out his bow. He leaps out of the way and fires only to have the arrow engulfed in blood.

Mahanon lets out a curse as the blood shoots forward. He only barely dodges the blow to his head, the mask flying from his face as he tilts back. A couple drops of blood splatter onto his face from the attack and cause him to squeeze his eyes shut, quickly wiping it away with his sleeve.

In that brief moment of distraction, a new stream of blood flies at him and latches onto his arms, suspending them over his head and dragging his entire body up into the air. The elf snarls and fights against the hold but the binding doesn't loosen.

Crouching behind an open top carriage, Dorian unstraps his staff and peers over top, trying to locate the blood mage responsible.

“I knew I'd find you alive,” he hears.

He narrows his eyes and scans the area to find a figure emerging from the shadows. Rolling his eyes at the cliché entrance, he stifles a sigh and watches on as none other than Dolorus steps out, dropping another dead slave to the ground.

Typical.

“To think you were just outside this entire time. Did you really think a mask would be enough to hide from me? I recognized you the moment I saw your eyes,” the newly appointed magister says. Standing in front of Mahanon, he pulls a metal collar out and wraps it around the elf's neck. “It's a good thing I thought to keep this in my carriage. Clean is a good look on you. I may have to have you washed more often.”

Mahanon renews his struggle as he's lowered to the ground and his arms forced behind his back. He digs his heels into the ground and pulls back, but with a yank, Dolorus forces the elf forward.

The magister takes a moment to look over the elf. “You won't be needing those anymore.” With a snap, the blood slices through the straps holding the daggers and they fall to the ground with a clatter. “Come, it's time to go back to the lab. Father left me with a lot of research to continue,” Dolorus says impatiently.

Although the man is speaking Tevene, he can see that Mahanon has no trouble understanding the magister’s intention. Amber eyes frantically flit about, looking for a way to free himself as he tries once more to dig his heels in.

“Enough of this,” Dolorus growls, pulling a syringe out and uncapping it.

Mahanon’s reaction is instantaneous. His face pales and his eyes widen in fear. He begins to shake his head, letting out a pleading string of Elven. It's only in his fear that Dorian can see just how young the elf is and the sight makes his chest tighten.

Unable to watch from the sidelines anymore, he stands up and calls out in Common Tongue, “Excuse me. What do you think you're doing with my coachman?”

They both turn to look at him, Mahanon’s shoulders immediately sagging in relief.

“Pavus? What are you doing here?”

He crosses his arms and says idly, “They took away the wine fountain so I thought I'd go on to the next party only to find you manhandling my means of transport. Look at him. The poor thing’s so frazzled he probably won't be able to drive straight.”

"You're mistaken. He's the escaped slave I've been telling you about,” Dolorus says.

Shaking his head, he retorts, “No, no, _you're_ mistaken. He's the servant Felix lent me for the night. With all those slaves going missing from parties, I was afraid I'd lose mine and be stranded here until morning, so Felix gave me one that could defend himself. He's quite good, isn't he?”

The magister scowls and tightens his grip on the chain. “Go back inside if you know what's good for you, Pavus. I'll even lend you one of my slaves to take you home.”

Dorian scoffs, unimpressed. “What would be good for me is if you'd kindly return the elf to me so I can avoid starting my year with ‘Felix, happy First Day! By the way, I'm afraid I let someone run off with your favourite elf.’ I'd never hear the end of it.”

“He belongs to me,” Dolorus says through gritted teeth.

“Check his ring. He's working for the Alexius household. You don't even know his name, do you?” he asks.

At this, the man rolls his eyes. “He doesn't need one.”

He arches a brow and turns to the elf who’s watching him, only understanding his half of the conversation. “How rude he is. Are you ready to get going, Mahanon, dear?”

Without missing a beat, Mahanon nods and answers, “Yes, ser, if you'd be so kind as to release my arms, ser.”

Good. At least he still has his wits about him.

Raising his staff, he's about to dispel the blood magic when a stream of blood shoots towards him. Stepping back, he freezes the blood and sends back a fireball only to have it crash into a barrier. “I warned you, Pavus!”

“Dorian, my arms!”

Dodging another spell, he casts a barrier around himself and dispels the area around the elf. The blood binding breaks and Mahanon’s arms fall free to his side.

Wasting no time, the elf turns, but before he can reach his daggers, Dolorus yanks on the chain and sends him flying to the ground. Dorian watches helplessly as the magister puts his foot down on the collar around Mahanon’s throat, holding him in place before turning his attention back to the fight.

A blast of electricity shatters his barrier and Dorian ducks to the side when another jet of blood flies towards him.

“What's the matter, Pavus? You've suddenly gone quiet,” Dolorus taunts.

He rolls his eyes and counters another blow. In his mind, he systematically runs through all of his abilities, trying to find something that he can attack the magister with while leaving Mahanon unharmed.

Electricity is out of the question and so is fire…

Suddenly, Dolorus reels back with a cry of pain. Dorian snaps to attention to see a small knife embedded in the man’s leg and Mahanon rolling onto his knees, a hand rubbing his throat and coughing.

He can't help but smile at the elf’s ridiculous cache of hidden weapons. Sending a barrage of fireballs at the magister, he watches the first break the barrier and then the second engulf the man in flames.

Dolorus yelps as the chain heats up and quickly unwraps it from his arm and lets it drop. Without hesitation, Mahanon tugs at his end to pull it out of reach.

Eyes scanning the area, Dolorus limps back to the carriages and pulls the closest door open. Finding a slave hiding inside, he pulls the man out and draws a knife from his pocket.

“No!”

“Wait!” he calls out as Mahanon runs over to help the slave.

But it's too late.

Blood sprays from the man’s throat and wraps around Dolorus protectively. Mahanon gets thrown against the side of a carriage while a fresh wave of blood pins him to the ground.

Dorian struggles against the force holding him down, trying to reach his pocket for a lyrium potion.

He needs to dispel this and fast.

“Enough of this,” the magister says, his voice devoid of humour. He walks over to Mahanon and wraps a hand around his throat and lifts him up with augmented strength. The elf claws uselessly at the hand, legs kicking wildly. “We were so careful to leave you unbroken but maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe your blood will work just as well with you tame.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sources for Elven are from the game and from [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3719848), all done by the amazing [fenxshiral](http://fenxshiral.tumblr.com) and their Project Elvhen.

With widened eyes, Mahanon watches the magister draw him in close, his fingers wrapped tightly around his throat, cutting off his breath and any cries he might have. Then slowly, Dolorus brings a knife towards his face, announcing something in Tevene. His stomach drops and fear freezes his limbs.

This is it.

He closes his eyes.

“Fasta vass, Mahanon, don't just dangle there! Be a little more resourceful!”

Snapping out of his stupor, he glances over to where Dorian is still pinned to the ground and struggling against the blood magic. Then he turns back to Dolorus and tries to blink away the black flecks entering his vision. Moving his hand up from the man’s wrist to his fingers, he subtly slides the lock pick out of his braid and lowers his arms, his strength spent for the moment.

The man laughs at his efforts, speaking condescending words too fast for him to understand.

Unable to take a breath, he stills and gathers his strength. Just as the blade touches his forehead, he lifts his arm up and brings the lock pick down onto the man’s eye.

Dolorus screams and staggers back, his hands to his face. Dropping to the ground, Mahanon quickly scrambles to orientate himself and picks up the fallen knife as he gets back onto his feet.

Chest heaving to bring air back into his burning lungs, he takes a step towards Dolorus, the chains dragging behind him. “Nar melana sahlin,” he says, his voice rough and broken. “May the Dread Wolf take you.”

With the flick of his wrist, he sends the magister to the ground.

He's faintly aware of Dorian coming to stand at his side as he stares at Dolorus’ body, blood oozing from his throat and a lock pick in his eye. “Are you alright?”

Mahanon nods and tosses the knife to the ground. “It's over.”

“Yes, let's hope so,” Dorian sighs, running a hand through his bloodied, tousled hair. “At least this means we won't have to worry about that bounty anymore. And you haven't turned into some enthralled walking corpse. That's something.”

Suddenly, there's an explosion in the sky behind them and the two of them whirl around to see fireworks going off. Mahanon stares up in amazement at the eruption of lights and colours while Dorian bursts into laughter.

"Well, this is certainly a memorable way to start the new year,” the mage says, eyes twinkling.

Finally, he turns to the man to see his new, ornate robe covered in blood from when Dolorus’ spell broke. Looking down, he realizes that he's in no better shape. “I don't suppose you can return to your party covered in blood.”

“It wouldn't be anything new,” Dorian says with a shrug. “But in this case, it might be a little incriminating, though you may be in a worse position for that. Any ideas on how to cover up your tracks?”

Mahanon nods at the body and at the knife sticking out of the magister’s leg. "It's already been taken care of. I just have to stay out of sight.”

Arching a brow, Dorian lets out a surprised laugh when he notices the guild symbol carved into the handle. “You didn't! You _would_ be the one to single-handedly start a war between bounty hunters. Maker, you're probably responsible for all the passed out drunks found with their pants down too, aren't you, you glorious thing?”

He shoots the other a crooked grin and shrugs.

Around them, slaves and servants are quietly moving the dead bodies away to avoid running them over later. It’s a routine he's grown familiar with, occasionally pitching in to help. Walking over to one of the blood drained bodies of a servant he failed to save, he mutters quietly, “Falon’Din enasal enaste.”

Before he can go to move it, another servant, an older man pats him on the arm and says something before carrying the body away with a young woman.

“He said to save your strength,” Dorian translates quietly as another servant comes by, offering him water.

Accepting the flask and taking two gulps, Mahanon lets the coolness sooth his aching throat before returning it with a hoarse thank you in Tevene.

A little hesitantly, Dorian points and asks, “Do you need help with…?”

Mahanon looks down to see what the man's gesturing at and remembers the heavy metal collar around his neck. With a frown, he tugs at it and finds it sealed with magic. “Please.”

Tilting his head up, he stands completely still as Dorian reaches under his chin to unfasten it. There's a faint glow of warmth before the collar comes apart with a clatter. Judging by the way the mage grimaces, he can only imagine what kind of bruises are colouring his neck. “Felix’s healer will probably have words for you again.”

He rubs his neck and assesses the pain spattered all around it and sighs. “She probably will.”

Walking across the small clearing, he picks up his bow and daggers, idly playing with the hilt in thought. Just as he opens his mouth to speak, a woman appears with two large bottles of wine, presenting both to Dorian.

Mahanon looks up and arches a brow and Dorian explains, “I asked her to fetch me some wine earlier. In case I got stuck outside like this.” Holding the bottles up, he asks, “You wouldn't happen to know where we could drink this in peace, would you?”

That's how they end up sitting on top of Felix’s carriage. Looking down at his shaking hands and thinks back to the knife at his forehead. The memory sends a shiver down his spine. “You saved my life again. Ma serannas,” he finally says.

“I wasn't going to. I was going to go back inside to refill my glass,” Dorian admits nonchalantly, taking a swig of wine before passing it over. “But then I realized it was you and of course there was no way you'd quietly sit back and stay out of trouble.”

Mahanon lips curl up slightly. “Of course not.” Accepting the bottle, he takes a long drink, ignoring the discomfort in his throat.

Tevinter wine is spiced and a complicated mixture of flavours, so different from the varieties of alcohol he had in the clan, each with its own distinct but singular taste. The thought has him aching for a taste of honeyed wine even though it always makes the tips of his ears go red.

He takes another drink. “I also want to apologize.”

Dorian arches a brow. “What for?”

“For what I said about you being a coward. It was undeserved.”

“It wasn't undeserved,” Dorian sighs, running a hand over the silver mask in his lap. “For all my talk about bettering this country, I rarely act on it. I see wrongdoings here every day, and every time, I tell myself, 'Not this fight. The next one will matter more.’ At some point, I just stopped trying… I wouldn't have saved you that night, you know,” he confesses, “if it'd just been me.”

Mahanon nods. “I know.”

“And here you are, alive and fighting the good fight every night. It's all horribly reckless, mind you, but it’s brave and you’ve probably saved countless lives, which is more than I can say. So I would also like to apologize for my words that day. I said too much.”

He takes another swig and passes the wine back. “You were right though,” he admits quietly, the alcohol loosening his tongue. “It's how I got caught. Slavers ambushed us when I was out with one of the hunters to teach some of the little ones how to track. One of the little ones got caught and I went back for him. He escaped but I got careless and my friend died protecting me. All I could do was watch.” He lets out a scoff. “Those slavers were pretty upset with such an unsuccessful catch. They like the younger ones, you see, because ‘tattooed elves’ are too wild and sell for less.”

Dorian swallows hard. “I had no idea.”

Snapping out of his reverie, he blinks and looks over, surprised. “Really? I guess it's not something you'd notice unless it affected you personally.”

“I guess not, but perhaps it's time I start taking more notice,” the man says quietly, an underlying note of determination in his voice.

The conviction behind his words causes Mahanon’s lips up to curl up and he lets out a soft huff. Dorian shoots him a questioning look but then there's a light tug on his coat and he looks down to see a slave standing there.

He instantly sobers up and nods. Using the hand signals developed over the last week of parties, the elven woman makes the gesture for 'drunk and handsy magister to the right’ and disappears back into the crowd.

Unsheathing his daggers, he gets up and tells Dorian, “I'll be right back. Duty calls.”

The mage arches a brow and looks around for any sign of trouble. “How do you know?”

Mahanon briefly considers divulging the truth but quickly decides against it. “I have a...n excellent sense of smell?” he tries with a shrug.

Dorian throws his head back and laughs at his poor attempt of a lie. “Fine, keep your secrets. If it's a drunk noble, do me a favour and throw him in a rose bush—the thorniest one you can find. I want something fun to hear about in the morning. It'll go well with my inevitable hangover. And don't take too long or there'll be no wine left for you.”

He chuckles. “Save me some and I'll see if I can find some nettle to roll him around in.”

Eyes lighting up with mischievous delight, Dorian pretends to drum his fingers on his chin in thought. “Nettle, hmm? That's quite good. Very well. You’ve got yourself a deal.”

\--

The rest of the night is quiet with only one other incident and a false alarm taking place (the man passed out before Mahanon could reach him). He and Dorian are quite tipsy by the time the carriage starts moving, nearly throwing them off.

They quickly scramble off the roof with unsteady limbs. “Kaffas, we could've _died._ Is he always like this?” Dorian asks, eyes wide and a hand to his chest.

Mahanon laughs. “Probably. Isn't he great?”

With a baffled smile, Dorian climbs into the back while he makes his way towards the front seat, but then he hears “Come sit in the back. You'll fall to your death up there and then where would we be?”

“I think you underestimate my balance, Lord Pavus,” he says even as he goes to climb into the back, his movements clumsy and languid.

In his peripheral, he thinks he can see the coachman snorting in amusement.

The carriage rolls up to the entrance of the house where Felix is waiting. When the young man opens the door, Mahanon can see his eyes widen. “Dorian! There you are! I thought you'd left!” Then he turns to see Mahanon and the two empty bottles rolling around on the floor of the carriage. “Maker’s breath, are you two drunk?”

In his wine addled mind, he remembers that humans can't see that well in the dark and Felix probably has no idea that they're getting his seats all bloody.

Again.

“That'd be the best case scenario, but sadly it seems we are both merely pleasantly tipsy,” Dorian says with a sigh. “Get in here. I imagine you'll be significantly less pleased with the events that led up to this. Do you want the good news, the excellent news, or the bad news first?”

Closing the door behind him, Felix purses his lips. “I'll take the excellent news first.”

Without missing a beat, Dorian wraps an arm around his friend’s shoulders and grins. “The excellent news, Felix, is that our dear Mahanon here is now completely up to date on the subject of Tevinter social classes.”

\--

The parties peter out and all talk of bounties fade to whispered rumours.

“Word on the street is that he was killed by a bounty hunter he double crossed,” Felix tells him one day in the study before their lesson. “No one even pretended to be surprised.”

“Really? I heard he died from a curse,” Dorian chimes in. “Apparently he used one too many savage elves from the south in his experiments and his last subject placed a hex on him.”

Felix laughed. “You'd think a country run by people who literally spend their entire lives studying magic would be a little less superstitious.”

Dorian turns to him with an arched brow and asks with mock-graveness, “ _Is_ it superstition though? _Did_ you cast some horrible elven curse on him?”

Mahanon rolls his eyes and retorts, “Of course. All of our little ones learn how to cast curses in case the _shem_ get them.”

“Oh, that’s a new word,” Dorian says, distracted. “And it sounded derogatory. What does it mean?”

“Stop it, Dorian,” Felix protests, “you’re supposed to be _helping_ with this lesson!”

Then, like most things in Tevinter, it quickly gets swept away by more current scandals. Not even the death of a magister is enough to hold anyone's attention for long.

On his part, he continues learning Tevene and standing guard at the door as Felix discusses mathematics with friends and colleagues. No one notices when he stops wearing the mask, although Dorian does make an offhanded mention that it no longer smells like an Orlesian orgy.

As the days pass, he can feel the tension growing as he spends his nights sharpening his daggers and maintaining his armour. The rest of the household seems to notice it too, with the way the servants bustle about restlessly, flitting back and forth, preparing for their young master’s leave.

On the day of the departure, the household is busy as always, servants only stopping to bid Felix a safe trip. Sanna is the only one who pulls him aside after breakfast and places a tin of balm in his hand. He looks down and blinks.

“I know how much you like the taste but healing draughts are hard to travel with,” she tells him with a smile to herself. “You've only been here a month and you've already used up more of my potions than anyone else.”

Mahanon shrugs helplessly. “In my defense, I was never the one who started those particular fights.”

“Of course not,” Sanna says, rolling her eyes. “This will help with any swelling. You can also use it to disinfect your injuries though it'll sting like a drake bite.” She pauses. “You won't be coming back, will you?”

He lowers his gaze. “No, I won't. Thank you for everything. I owe you my life.”

She shrugs. “I was just doing my job. Try to stay safe out there and don't forget the exercises I taught you. At least twice a day. Once in the morning and once before bed.”

Smiling, he says, “I will not let your good work go to waste.”

The healer places a hand on his shoulder and returns the smile. “Be well, Mahanon. Keep Master Felix safe.”

Swallowing hard, he pockets the balm and nods. “Vitae benefaria, Sanna.”

At the door, he finds Dorian and Felix standing there, speaking quietly in Tevene. Spotting him, Felix waves him over. “Are you ready to go, Mahanon?”

He nods.

“My parents are saying goodbye right now and I thought it'd be nice to give them a moment of privacy,” Felix explains. “My mother will be coming to visit friends in Val Royeaux. She'll have her own carriage though.”

Dorian leans back against the doorframe and crosses his arms. “With her there, you'll be out of a job,” he says conversationally, the same air of detachment around him as when they'd first met. "I've never met a more formidable mage. I like to call her the _Dragon of Minrathous_.”

Laughing, Felix nudges him. “You should tell her that.”

“Oh no, I’d never. She'd be entirely too pleased.”

They glance out the door again. “Looks like they're about done. We should get going, Mahanon. We have a long trip ahead of us.” Felix pulls Dorian into a tight hug. “I’ll see you when I return. Take care of my father and yourself and try to miss me at least a little.”

Scoffing, Dorian smiles. “I promise I'll cry myself to sleep until you're back. To think, you’ll be in Orlais, enjoying the company of your delightful lady friend while I will simply have to make do with letters. Such an abhorrent character he’s turned out to be, yes?”

Mahanon looks up a little sheepishly, unsure of what to say. He hadn’t expected this goodbye to be so hard. Just then, Felix perks up. “Dorian, you should tell him.”

The man quickly shakes his head. “No, there's no need. There's nothing to tell.”

“It's not nothing! Tell him!”

“Tell me what?” Mahanon asks, curious now.

Felix grins all too happily. “Dorian went and started a trend—”

With a groan, Dorian rolls his eyes skyward and sighs, “It has been _brought to my attention_ that it is idiotic to leave carriages defenseless outside where anyone could just go in and steal them so I thought it'd be a good idea to have guards on standby.”

He blinks. “You hired guards for the people outside?”

“Only once to make a point,” Dorian clarifies. “The rest was out of my hand—the nobility so do like to one up each other. It was also a reputable guild I hired, mind you. Not one caught up in all that bounty nonsense.”

Mahanon smiles widely, unable to help himself. “Thank you, Dorian.”

Dorian spares him a quick smile back before waving him off. “Anyway, you can go back to the savage south now, that's what you get for drinking on the job. Good riddance and all that.”

“Of course, ser, my deepest apologies, ser,” he returns dryly.

“Such cheek, who even found you?” Dorian sighs dramatically. Then straightening his robes, he extends a hand. “I wish you safe travels, Mahanon. Do try to stay out of trouble. You know I won't be there to bail you out again.”

Shaking his hand, Mahanon nods. “I won't forget this.” At the sight of the mage frowning so miserably, he gives the mage’s hand a squeeze and pulls him in close. “Suledin, Dorian. Ema rogathe. Dareth shiral.”

The mage blinks and opens his mouth but Mahanon shakes his head and turns around to leave.

Walking down the path to the carriage, Felix leans over and asks, “What'd you tell him?”

“I will tell you later,” he replies easily.

“You know it's going to drive him insane,” Felix says. “He’s going to read every book and ask every elf until he finds out what you said.”

He allows a smile to himself. “I know. It's payback for all the savage elf jokes.”

\--

The journey is uneventful with quiet rides for hours on end until either Felix or his mother decide to stop for a break. They pass by small towns and travelling vendors on the road and spend their nights in luxurious lodges or at the estates of friends.

Mahanon spends most of his time on his own, standing guard, slipping away only to have quick meals. In the presence of Livia, he keeps his eyes down and waits for her to pass. Felix tries to reassure him that it's unnecessary, but he'd rather not draw the attention of someone even Dorian was wary of.

He takes naps on the road and counts the travellers passing by. Never before had he been so far from the Free Marches, and with nothing better to do, he takes in the scenery around him to tell the clan about after he returns, something which seems to be becoming closer and closer to reality with each passing day.

To his side, the coachman smokes his pipe as usual and they sit in comfortable silence. In his mind, he tries to trace their path and count down the days to his final destination. As agreed to with Felix before their trip, they'll part ways in Nevarra and he'll find his own way to the Free Marches from there.

A little over a week in, Mahanon finds himself in Vol Dorma where they’re put up by a friend of Livia’s. From the moment they arrive, the women launch into debate about the intricacies of veil magic that not even Felix could explain to him. The two continue well into dinner, and with nothing better to do, he stands by the door and dreams of home.

He'll run into the patrol guards and be led to the Keeper, who will study his face in disbelief. Once released, he'll be tackled to the ground by the First and for once, he'll let her win the match.

One by one, the clan will welcome him back, some with tears in their face, some with disbelief. From the side of the camp, his fellow apprentice and their craft master will watch as he approaches, the man's scowl will soften just a little. He'll be thrown a piece of ironbark to prove that he hasn't lost his craft.

Even in his mind, something feels off.

“Mahanon?”

With a start, he jumps to attention to see Felix standing there with a rueful smile on his face. “Apologies,” he mutters.

“No, I didn't mean to startle you. Dinner’s over but they’re still talking about mana sources,” Felix says, gesturing to the stairs. He's led to the balcony of one of the many guest suites and cocks his head in confusion. “It'll be another two weeks before we hit our next city in Nevarra and that's when we part ways, so this may be one of our last chances to talk. Is there anything you need for your trip?”

He shakes his head. “I'll be fine, thank you.” His main concern had been crossing the Silent Plains where both food and water are scarce, but with that problem negated, he's confident in his abilities to navigate the wilderness with nothing more than the weapons on his back.

Looking out over the railings into the fortified city, Felix asks idly, “How do you find Vol Dorma?”

Mahanon follows his gaze out and crosses his arms. He thinks back to the feeling of walking through the gates with towering stone walls humming with magic looming over him. “The walls are suffocating.”

“Being so close to the Anderfels and the Silent Plains, the walls were built to withstand a blight,” Felix explains. “Keep the darkspawn out and the people in. Though they’ve definitely had more success with the first.”

He scoffs quietly. “Yes, well, some ‘people’ are fortunate enough to enlist the help of a pair of friendly Altus mages.”

Felix laughs. “Dorian got you good with that lesson on Tevinter social classes, didn't he?”

Rolling his eyes skyward, he groans, “Elgar'nan, we spent a whole bottle of wine on the topic.”

\--

The next day, they depart the city and he feels a rush of relief when the carriage rolls through the gates and back onto the Imperial Highway. They've been on the road for hours on end and there's a nagging feeling inside him that keeps him from drifting off.

To both sides of the road are thick, lush trees. As they continue, the dread grows. Movement seems to flicker in the corner of his eyes but he can't hone in on any one presence in the foliage. There aren't any houses are towns within sight, and according to Felix, they won't reach their lodging until well after nightfall.

The horses nicker uneasily and shy away from the trees, and he takes it as a confirmation to pause and investigate.

Tightening his grip on his seat apprehensively, Mahanon turns around to tell the coachman to stop when up ahead, an ogre comes barreling out of the treeline and straight into the other carriage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nar melana sahlin: Your time has come  
> The other bit I will translate in the next, next update
> 
> One more chapter of the prequel to go! This is the smoothest things have ever gone for a fic


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Take a look at Non by the amazing kaninenkung!](https://kaninenkung.tumblr.com/post/170616633176/elf-doodles-left-is-selfish-cat-s-just)

With a deafening crack, Mahanon watches as the wood of the carriage break and splinter under the force of the ogre’s charge. The horses immediately veer to the side, throwing the coachman off.

Without anyone there to steer, the carriage crashes to a halt. The horses break free of their reins and go running into the forest.

Regaining his balance, he quickly climbs on top of the carriage and nocks an arrow. Around them, he can see a large group of darkspawn pour out of the forest on either side. Even as he takes down one hurlock after another from afar, his eyes scan the area for an escape route.

With the other guards already down and only him fighting, there's no feasible way for them to survive.

“Mahanon, what's going on!?” Felix asks, sticking his head out from the window.

“Wait, stay in there!”

Suddenly, a large burst of flame shoots out from the shattered carriage, engulfing the surrounding darkspawn. With brief shrieks of pain, the flames drown out their cries as the blighted creatures fall to ashes. From the debris, he sees Livia emerge, bloodied and furious.

With one arm wrapped around her stomach and the other on her staff, she sends up another wall of fire before glancing over and putting up a barrier around their carriage.

Taking down another hurlock, Mahanon pulls out his daggers and leaps to the ground to face the charging genlock. He manages to cut down a few but ends up with his back against the carriage as they begin to swarm him. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices a genlock alpha rearing up to charge and quickly reaches behind him to open the door.

Sparing a moment to turn away from the darkspawn, he yanks Felix out of the carriage and runs towards Livia just as the alpha’s shield hits the back of the coach. The darkspawn begin chasing them and he lets go of Felix’s arm to cut down the closest hurlock before pushing forward. “Keep running!”

Eyes wide with fear, they try to make their way towards the other carriage but find themselves encircled. As he's parrying an attack, a genlock tackles him to the ground.

With the air knocked out of him, Mahanon lies there, stunned and exhausted. He looks up and sees a genlock jump at him and raises his blades, running the creature through. Grunting at the strain on his arms, he rolls to his side and uses his leg to pry the darkspawn off his daggers.

He closes his eyes and turns his head at the splatter of blood as he frees his blades. Suddenly, the ground begins to rumble.

“Mahanon!”

“Felix!”

A wave of cold falls over him, and when he manages to blink the stars out of his vision, he sees a frozen genlock alpha with a shield raised above him. Tilting the creature away with a kick, he scrambles back onto his feet and pulls Felix away from the blighted monsters.

Just up ahead, he can see Livia standing with her arms raised in concentration and panting hard. It's only with her arm out of the way that he sees a large piece of wood piercing her side. On the ground next to her is a fallen ogre and piles of dead darkspawn.

From behind her, a hurlock stirs and gets onto its feet, bringing its bow up. Without hesitation, Mahanon throws his dagger, watching as the blade slice into the creature’s face.

But it's too late.

The arrow flies loose and finds its way into the woman’s back.

“Mother!”

Flinching at the blow, Livia furrows her brows, not breaking concentration, and finishes her spell. For a moment, the skies darken and hundreds of fists come raining down from the sky, shattering the frozen horde of darkspawn.

The two of them gather around her as she collapses to the ground. Felix goes to support her with tears running down his face. “Mother!”

She smiles and cups his face, whispering quiet words of comfort.

Swallowing hard, Mahanon goes to retrieve his dagger to give the pair some privacy. When he returns, he finds Felix curled over his mother's body. Placing a hand lightly on the young man’s shoulder, he says as gently as he can, “Felix, I'm sorry but we have to go.”

Felix shakes his head. “I can't just leave her here. There's a pack in the carriage… You need to go, Mahanon.”

He hesitates. Then he notices how pale the other's become and his eyes hone in on a cut across his upper arm and feels his stomach drop. Digging around his pocket with unsteady hands, he pulls out the balm Sanna had given him and hands it to Felix. “Use this and wait here.”

Running past the stretch of dead darkspawn, Mahanon keeps his daggers drawn as he approaches the destroyed carriage. On the way, he passes the body of the coachman and mutters a quick prayer under his breath.

With his heart pounding in his ears, he runs up to the pile of debris. Kicking the rubble away, he locates the pack and slings it over his back and hears a distressed whinny. Ears perking up, he races over to the treeline where he finds one of the horses with its reins tangled in a low hanging tree.

Jogging over, he calms the horse and leads it back to where Felix is still kneeling, despondent. The horse snorts and shies away from the body of the ogre and refuses to get any closer. Exhaling, Mahanon ties its reins to a nearby tree and jogs back over.

Mahanon’s throat tightens when he sees Felix’s complexion. He pulls off a glove and applies the balm to the wound with numb, shaking fingers. The sting seems to snap the young man out of his stupor. Pulling at his arm, Felix cries, “She's gone, Mahanon. What do I do? My mother's _gone_.”

“I’m sorry, Felix,” he says quietly, carefully cupping the other’s face with his ungloved hand, “but I need you to be brave. She saved us and now we need to get out of here before more darkspawn come. I have your things. Can you stand? Please, we need to get you to a healer,” he urges, pulling the other up.

Sobbing, Felix nods and gets to his feet. Wrapping one of the young man’s arms around his neck, he brings him over to the horse and helps him up.

Climbing up behind Felix, he takes the reins and urges the horse into a gallop back towards Vol Dorma. With his heart filled with lead, he concentrates on leading the horse down the road.

Nothing's gone right.

“I'm sorry, Mahanon,” Felix says weakly, his voice low and despondent.

“Don't say that,” he replies, brows furrowing.

The rest of their trip is silent save for the horse's growing exhaustion. When at last, the walls of Vol Dorma come into view, Felix suddenly tugs at the reins and pulls the horse to a stop.

Mahanon blinks. “Felix?”

“You need to get off,” the other says without turning around.

He frowns. “But you need a healer.”

Felix shakes his head. “I'll find one in Vol Dorma, but you need to get off now. That pack is for you.”

Hesitating, he remains on the horse. “Are you sure? What if—”

“No, I couldn't keep my end of the promise so this is me opening the window for you,” Felix says sternly even as his shoulders shake and his lungs rattle with every breath. Even the back of his neck has taken on a sickly colour. “Thank you for your services and I'm sorry I failed you.”

Mahanon swallows hard and slides off onto the ground. “No, Felix…”

“Goodbye, Mahanon.”

He watches the horse rear up wearily and continue its way towards the city. Left alone, Mahanon stands there in a daze and covered in darkspawn blood.

"…but I'm the one who failed you."

Looking down the highway one last time to ensure that Felix is out of sight, he drags his feet off the road and into the trees.

Although he knew he'd have to travel on his own, now surrounded by silence the wilderness, somehow the journey seems more daunting than anything he could've prepared himself for.

Still in a stupor, he wanders aimlessly until he comes across a small stream. Mahanon carefully washes all of the blood off himself, making sure to avoid splashing any in his eyes or mouth. When he's satisfied, he sits back and opens the pack he'd been left with.

Inside, he finds a map, a needle and thread, a set of lock picks, assorted foods, a waterskin, another tin of balm, and a comb.

Blinking, he finds his vision blurred by tears as the reality of his situation catches up to him. Taking off his glove, he wipes his eyes and sniffles, trying to choke back the sobs. One by one, he gathers the things and puts them back into the pack.

He runs soaks his arms in the stream before applying balm to the throbbing scars, still protesting from bearing the weight of a leaping genlock. Sniffling, he wipes the new wave of tears away with his arm and tries to blink back the unshed tears welling up in his eyes.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he pulls his gloves back on and stands up. Mahanon looks around to gather his bearings and begins to walk parallel to the road. As he travels, he goes through his old routine of categorizing potential threats he may find along the way.

Darkspawn, wild animals, bounty hunters, blood mages, he lists, countering each with a plan of action. The practice calms him down and finally slows his tears. He etches trail markers into the trees he passes with symbols to mark resources and avoid hazards. When night falls, he sets traps and makes camp up in a tree, still being far enough north to last the night without a fire.

Opening the pack, he nibbles on a bit of cured meat and studies the items a little closer. Upon inspection, he finds a small pack of candied dates and treats himself to one before carefully stowing it back away in favour of the comb.

Having washed the blood out of his hair in the stream earlier, he tentatively runs the comb through the tangled strands of black onto to find it slips through effortlessly. Pleasantly surprised, he quickly gets his hair back into working order and ties it up in a thick, clumsy braid and tucks a lock pick into it if only for comfort.

With that done, he leans back against the trunk of the tree and looks up at the skies, thinking about Felix's condition and if anyone managed to get word back to Minrathous yet.

The tears return and he quickly scrubs at his eyes again, turning a little to get more comfortable.

“Ghilan'nain enaste. Sathan ghilana mir vhenas,” he mutters, drifting off into an uneasy sleep.

\--

For days and weeks, he makes his way south. He hadn’t accounted for how quickly one lost their sense of purpose wandering alone in the wilderness. Nightmares plague him, and dread and hopelessness hound his every step and after every close call. Loneliness looms over him like a storm cloud and at times, he finds himself missing Minrathous if only to listen to Felix and Dorian bantering or to have Sanna reprimand him for being so reckless.

No longer following the highway, Mahanon sticks by the mountain range and kills his time by evading darkspawn, and raiding and dispatching small groups of bounty hunter and bandits along the way. He had been hesitant to approach them at first—until he stumbled across one of their camps and spotted their metal carts full of ‘goods’. After that, he went out of his way to find them.

On this particular night, he tracks a hunter back to their camp and watches from a nearby tree. From how well stocked their camp is, they must've only recently returned from town.

The four hunters are sitting around their fire, chatting idly among themselves. From his perch, Mahanon can smell the meat being roasted and feels his mouth watering at the thought of treating himself to a bite after he clears the camp.

While he still has cured foods saved in his pack, he knows he'll need them later when he gets closer to the Silent Plains, even though surviving until that point feels more and more impossible with each passing day.

Tying his pack on a nearby branch, he climbs down and readies his bow. Taking aim, he fires and takes out the mage. Quickly ducking and rolling behind a nearby tree, he waits for the remaining hunters to investigate before letting loose another arrow, hitting the rogue in the gut.

The two immediately turn to him and charge. Pulling out his daggers, he dodges an incoming arrow from the archer still by the fire and steps further into the shadows. Sparing a moment, Mahanon glances over and takes note of the archer’s shortbow—much more ideal for hunting than his.

As expected, the warrior comes charging after him. He dodges the swing and uses the tree the man is standing in front of to swing around behind him. Raising his daggers, he plunges them into the warrior’s neck and quickly ducks behind the tree to avoid more incoming arrows.

He takes his bow out again and leans out from his cover to aim. Vision distorted by the nearby camp fire, he misses and grazes the woman’s shoulder. Returning to his cover behind the tree, he looks around for a better point to shoot from.

Circling the camp, he manages to get closer, putting the rogue between him and the fire. The woman is standing still, alert and bow drawn, waiting for any sign of movement. Taking a pebble, he tossed it at some nearby bushes. Arrows immediately follow the rustling, flying straight into the foliage.

There's a pause.

Neither of them move.

He draws his bow and waits for an opening.

Slowly, the archer takes a step away from the fire, her arrow nocked and ready. Then another. And another.

She turns slightly towards the bushes and Mahanon fires. The arrow flies and hits her in the shoulder blade. The rogue spins around and fires as another arrow embeds itself in her torso and she goes down.

Emerging from his cover, Mahanon walks over and looks around, scanning the area for any hidden figures. Once confident that the camp’s been cleared of hostiles, he goes about checking the pockets of the hunters for anything useful.

Stopping by the archer, he reaches down to take her bow. Suddenly, a hand reaches and grabs his arm. He flinches and steps back and unsheathes his daggers.

The woman rolls onto her back with a groan and he tightens his grip on his blade, ready to put her out of her misery, but after a soft sigh, she goes still.

Mahanon leans a little closer, using a foot to nudge her.

Nothing.

Exhaling, he reaches down and takes the bow and arrows before moving on to raid the camp. As he nears the fire, he catches sight of two reflective orbs watching him and tenses.

He narrows his eyes, trying to get a better look at the figure but with the brightness of the fire, all he can see is darkness in contrast. Warily, with his daggers back out and steps towards the unblinking eyes.

When he steps away from the fire, his eyes readjust to the dark and he begins to make out the shape of a metal cart—the typical kind that all slavers and bounty hunters bring with them. Lowering his weapons slightly, he makes his way over to find the cart half tucked away in a bush, and inside, an elven woman and child of no older than seven or eight.

The child watches him approaches, hands clinging to the woman's tunic. The woman is lying down and as Mahanon gets closer, it becomes apparent to him that she's been dead for at least a day now.

The bounty hunters must've neglected them to go rack up more slaves before returning to the city.

Gritting his teeth, he hurries over and begins to pick the lock. The heavy steel lock comes undone with a clank and he swings the heavy metal door open. Unlike other camps he’s raided, the captives don’t spring to their feet and scatter into the wind with barely a word, instead, the child moves a little closer to the woman, afraid. Her eyes are sunken and skin pale, it must’ve been a while since she last had anything to eat or drink.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he tries in Common Tongue. “Can you get up?”

The girl stares at him uncomprehendingly and returns with a question of her own in Tevene, her voice weak and raspy, “Can you save my mama?”

Mahanon freezes before lowering his eyes and shaking his head. “No, I’m sorry. I can’t. She's gone,” he tells her softly, his throat tight.

She doesn’t seem surprised, but the truth still strikes her all the same and she starts crying. Unable to comfort her, all he can do is stand there and wait. When the child finally calms down, she climbs out of the cart and begins digging, muttering to herself through tears. Glancing at her, he thinks of how Felix clung to his mother in that battlefield, surrounded by darkspawn corpses, and how they left her body there, unburied.

He sees the sight often in his dreams—a reminder of his failure replaying over and over again.

Swallowing hard, he goes back to the campfire to dig around for tools and returns to help her.

Together, they bury the woman in a shallow grave.

The girl quietly curls by the grave and realizing that she won't be moving from that spot, he leaves her alone to go retrieve his pack from the tree.

Taking the waterskin out, Mahanon crouches by the girl and holds it up to her lips. “Drink,” he says, hoping he's using the right conjugation for the word. It’s been days since he last practiced his Tevene. “It's water.”

She doesn't reply, but she does open her mouth. He manages to get her to take two gulps before she turns away.

Placing the water down next to her, he continues scavenging around for tools and food. By the time he returns to the fire, the meat being roasted is now little more than a charred piece of rock. Tossing it aside, he rummages through their cooking ware to find another rabbit that had been skinned and lightly seasoned.

He brings the pot with him to the nearby creek he'd found earlier and fills it up, water splashing everywhere as he clumsily brings it back. Bringing it to a boil, he throws the rabbit in along with a couple of roots he'd found days ago.

Leaving it on the fire, Mahanon continues his hunt around the camp, occasionally doubling back to the grave to make sure the child gets a sip of water. He finds blankets in their tents and pile them next to the girl, who's fallen asleep, and goes back to tend to the fire. They'll have to douse it soon for fear of being discovered.

When the stew’s ready and cooled, he shakes the girl awake gently and hands her a bowl. “You need to eat something,” he says, sitting down next to her.

She sits there sullenly, obediently spooning the contents into her mouth before falling asleep again.

Glancing over, after a moment of thought, he goes and drapes a blanket over the girl and continues eating in silence.

\--

The next morning, Mahanon returns from his patrol to find the child kneeling and staring hungrily at the leftovers he’d placed nearby. In the light of day, he can see that she has tight curls, deep brown skin, and chestnut eyes that somehow look more hopeful than he’s felt in days.

Arching a brow, he asks, “Have you just been sitting there the entire time?”

The girl immediately lowers her eyes, still red and swollen from a night of tears.

He thinks back to the many hours spent standing by doors, watching adults reprimand children for daring to look up. With his limited vocabulary, he doesn’t know how to tell her to lift her head without making it sound like a command. So instead, he reaches down and ruffles her hair and goes to fill a bowl for her.

They eat in silence until he finally asks her in Tevene, “What is your name?”

“Linea,” she says quietly, eyes still to the ground.

“I'm Mahanon.” At the confused look on her face, he points at himself. “Non.”

She copies his gesture. “Nea.”

“Nea, then. Is there anywhere you’re trying to go?” he asks, a stilted mix of Tevene and Common Tongue. It’s bad enough that this is the first conversation he’s had in over a week, but it just had to be in his weakest language.

Luckily, the girl seems to understand his question, however poorly asked, and shakes her head. “No, Mama wanted to go to Nevarra, but now she is in the ground just like Papa.”

Mahanon inhales, finding it hard to swallow the information. “I see. Well, I have to go, but you can come with me if you want. It will be dangerous, but I’ll do my best to protect you. And if you don’t want to come, I can find someone to take you to the closest city.”

“I want to go with Non,” Linea says quite clearly.

He manages a weak smile. “Like I said, it’ll be dangerous, but where I’m going, there will be a place for you. I promise.”

They finish their breakfast and he packs up while Linea goes to her mother’s grave one last time. With his pack slung over his shoulder, he walks over and extends his hand. “Are you ready to go?”

Wiping the tears from her eyes, she nods and takes his hand. “Where are we going, Non?”

“Clan Lavellan,” he tells her. Taking a deep breath, he gives her hand a squeeze. “We are going home. And so we walk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ghilan'nain enaste. Sathan ghilana mir vhenas: Ghilan'nain's blessing. Please guide me home.
> 
> That last bit was from [The Long Walk ](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Codex_entry:_The_Long_Walk)
> 
> First part done! Next update will be in 2 weeks! Hope you enjoyed reading :)

**Author's Note:**

> Let's start 2018 by posting something! Hopefully it'll set a productive tone for the rest of the year


End file.
